Bright Things
by brightlin
Summary: Elissa Cousland has no interest in being the hero, but she loves the politics. Alistair has no interest in putting up with her, but he's a moth to a flame. Morrigan is lying to them both, which may be their death. They are the bright things, standing against the dark. Maker help us all. (Alistair-centric POV, morally gray characters, loose following of canon, DA:O and beyond)
1. Ogre

It had been his mantra since recruitment: _Duncan knows best_. The almost-templar had been so, so very grateful to be free of the Chantry and the cold eyes of the Revered Mother. But if faith in the Warden-Commander was his new religion, he was coming very close to blaspheming today.

It began with a roar, the battle at Ostagar. In the shadow of the ruins, an army had amassed. At its head, a golden king prepared to be bathed in glory. Or, at least, this was how Alistair pictured it. He could see nothing from the dank staircase in the Tower of Ishal. "I can't believe he left me behind," he muttered, wiping darkspawn guts off his sword blade. "After everything we've been through."

His companion snorted. "Has anyone ever told you that you talk aloud too much?"

"Oh, that's not very nice!"

"Keep your monologuing to yourself, Warden," she suggested, re-adjusting a poorly fitting leather helmet. She had taken it off some poor dead sod on the ground level, along with a pair of gloves and a change purse. He had protested this desecration of the dead to deaf ears. "Or else every creature in the tower will hear us coming."

Alistair scoffed. "Grey Wardens don't sneak, _recruit_. They enter battle with honesty, and with, um, triumphant shouts." Oh, yes, that sounded convincing. He grimaced as her mabari chose that moment to join in the baying of the hounds. He swatted at the beast, which earned a growl and almost cost him a hand, but the keening low wail persisted from the back of its throat. He pulled his fingers to his stomach with a yelp.

"Hush, dog," she commanded. It whined. She softly pushed open the door and raised her fist, signaling their little group to a halt. "All that honesty will bring you is a lot of death."

Who did she think she was?! And what sort of game did she think she was playing? All these noble-types were the same. From the moment she had introduced herself as "Lady Cousland, daughter of the Teryn of Highever," he had known just what sort of person she was. Often, bann such and such of nowhere would try and offload his third child on the Grey, if they showed no aptitude for Chantry life and could swing a stick. In Denerim, at least, they could take up posts in the city watch, they complained to him as their daddies pledged _donations_ to Duncan. Bulbous, ruddy faces and thick necks, the lot of them- useless. Some were turned away outright, as Duncan carefully wove his way through Ferelden politics. Others died in the Joining, and ended up in their family crypts, to the relief of their older brothers.

But almost none of them had been female, unless they were cursed with a powerful ugliness. Beautiful daughters, plain daughters, even simple daughters were born to be wives or priests. It was their vocation. Eamon had explained this all to him when he first brought home Isolde. She had been stunningly beautiful then, hard to look at, which disguised her cruelty. She was as close to an evil stepmother as Alistair was ever going to have. (Older, he had fantasized about her creamy shoulders until he spent into a handkerchief, as fervently as some boys worshiped Andraste. Thirteen was a disturbing age, and lonely without girls of their age about.)

So what was wrong with this one? The girl was tall, and slender, with flame-red hair cut to her throat. It was uneven, like maybe she had cut it herself. In the dark. With a dull knife. This, he had noticed first. Even now, it poked out under her looted helm, just on the one side.

She might have been pretty, he considered, if she hadn't been covered in gooey bits. He had always preferred blondes, anyway, buxom girls with wide hips. (A distant thought, pushed away: was he like his father?) She had small breasts and skinny arms; he was surprised she could lift the blades she was dual wielding, but she was obviously well trained or some sort of natural.

She turned her head to face him, frowning. A wicked mouth, full pink lips, even if her jaw was too strong to be considered feminine- "Ay, Warden-boy, are you even listening? You're staring."

He swallowed. "You're peeling." Oh, hell. What a dumb thing to say.

The girl (woman? female?) rolled her eyes. It was too dim to see what color they were, though they were small and set perhaps slightly too wide. Her skin was, as noted, peeling substantially. She touched her face. "There was sun on the march south. I'm fair, and no good for sun." She paused. "No good for marching, either. I've got blisters like you wouldn't believe."

"Really? I'd've thought a noblewoman would own good boots!" _C'mon, Alistair, what are you doing? Change the subject! Offer her some ointment. No, don't do that. Give her a foot rub? Yup, that's worse._ As he puzzled over this, his Warden senses began to nag him, elevating from a general sick feeling in the pit of his stomach to an urgent one. "Yeah, anyway, well, we've got company." _Great. I sound like a halfwit._

With a sigh, and a dour look, she sort of melted back into a shadows of the next room, which was a skulky rogue trick, if you asked Alistair, and more than that he could not say. There was more fighting.

He couldn't keep an eye on her and the dog and the mage who had joined up with them, but she could handle herself. Duncan had chosen her and she had survived the Joining, which meant something, certainly. Perhaps the taint liked the novelty of a woman. She made him feel, well, weird, like when the Revered Mother would punish him extra even though he hadn't done any worse than the other boys. It was a sensation he associated with embarrassment and dislike. (And though he would never admit it, longing for acceptance.)

The mage perished, but took down three with him in the doing. There was no time to mourn. They hadn't even asked his name. He had some Circle trinkets with him, which Alistair pocketed, to return to First Enchanter Irving.

These staircases were becoming a struggle to climb in the weight of his armor; he felt hot and fatigued. But the battle was picking up below them, by the screaming sound of metal and death in the valley. "We're late," she said. Her every step was demonstratively tender.

Alistair would have been sympathetic, remembering his first long trek in the company of the tireless Grey Wardens... but that she had offered none to others. She had been like this in the Wilds, too, bossing them into a forced march through the soft, swampy ground. Ser Jory had complained ceaselessly; he was used to riding, when in heavy plate. _Some good it got him. Last day alive. Could have stayed at camp, drank ale, wrote a letter to his lady wife..._

"You're right," he huffed. Try as he might, he was straggling below her. "But we're going as fast as we can. Some of us aren't in light armor." Duncan probably could have cleared the tower, lit the signal, and made it back to the field to see Loghain's men join them. That thought only added to his frustration. How many other fighters were experiencing their last moments because they were late to the signal?

She had the audacity to laugh. Maybe she was deranged from the Joining. He had heard of that happening in Orlais. "Keep up, Warden-boy! We've nearly done it."

"It's not-" bristled Alistair. "I'm not a boy."

"You sure? You look like you should still be in short-pants. Were you a squire? Do Templars _have_ squires?"

"It's _Ah_-_lees_-_tair,_" he enunciated. "Just call me Alistair. Maybe you've forgotten already, but we're meant to be brother and sister in arms. Or perhaps you would like me to call you _my lady_?"

"Point taken." The rogue had reached the threshold of the top floor. "Truth be told, I'd been calling you _Oliver_ in my head. Had it wrong! Alistair. Alistair." She smacked her lips, tasting the word. "If you must call me anything, you may call me Elissa. But I already have a brother," she said, "and I'm not looking for a bunch of darkspawn-chasing monks to replace him." Her voice trailed away as she put distance between them.

Ugh, Maker's breath, what a difficult woman. "Lissa, I'm not trying to... That's not what I- Ogre!" He was barely through the door when the creature charged him. _How has an ogre climbed to the top?_ he thought carelessly, as though his brain refused to comprehend the danger. _Do ogres use stairs? Perhaps they rig a pulley system?_

"I see it! Move!" She was- where? To the right? Running as though her feet weren't bleeding. Her pet was angry and excited, snapping at the air.

Ogres were stupid but absolutely deadly, powerful enough to turn your bones to jelly. He rolled, dodging as though his life depended upon it. _"Even fully armored, these monsters can still break your every rib with the concussion of the strike. With its prey thus stunned, it will paralyze the spine with the bite of its jaws." _Death would come first too fast and then too slowly, immobile and pissing yourself, screaming with ragged lungs.

He tried to orient himself to the scene. Heart pounding. Peripheral vision shot. One blow would kill a flimsy girl like her. He needed to keep its attention. Duncan's instructions continued in his head. _"Wear it down from behind. Then strike at the throat. The arteries there are the kill spot." _He had been trained for this. Theoretically. There were pictures, training dummies. But had never seen a living one in the flesh. "Stay behind it! The neck!" _They only come out for a Blight_.

"Easier said- hup-" she gasped in ragged breaths, "-than done- Andraste's tits!"

The room was circular, but full of obstacles and barricades. They tried to keep pace with each other, counterclockwise, one in front and one behind. Dodging the charges. Taunting the creature. _"Wear it down,"_ Duncan said. But they were getting twice as tired as the ogre, and at least half as dizzy. It could see much better in the dark than they could. Their weapons barely penetrated its dense flesh.

"This is ridiculous. I'm going to make a feint."

"What?"

"Cover me."

"What are you going to do?" He pivoted, blocking a fist with his shield.

"Oy, ugly!" she shrieked, drawing the attention of the ogre.

"Sure, that's helpful, make it even madder."

"You've got a better plan?"

"I can think of a few."

Elissa seemed to stumble. But instead of recovering, she crouched, leaving herself vulnerable. _What is she-?_ Alistair broke his concentration. It happened so fast that he didn't realize his mistake until it was too late.

WHAM! It felt like he had been struck by battering ram in the side. Sharp, dizzying pain, bone splintering like glass, the taste of copper in his mouth... He bounced off the wall. He couldn't breathe! Maker, please, air! He vomited weakly, red frothy ooze, his solar plexus hitching with every attempted inhale. He began to black out.

He thought he heard his name. "Warden! Alistair!" Elissa cried, hanging off the back of the beast. "You- oh, shit- you alive?" She was ten feet away, maybe, though the room was spinning and it was hard to judge. Her helmet flew off as the ogre bellowed and struggled to displace her. The mabari was clamped deep onto a muscled elbow, likely cutting to the bone, snarling as its body was whipped about. "This is not going to plan!"

He could not speak, but, propped on his good side, he lifted the injured arm to show he was still there. The motion was agonizing. Did she know what to do? _She hasn't had any training. She's only been a Warden for a few hours. I was supposed to protect her. Going to die going to die- No, I- _ _The tower was supposed to be secure_.

Her red hair flashed, a lick of fire curling up. _Andraste's holy fire-_ and she hung on for dear life. Her sword was hilt deep through the shoulder, her only handle. Perhaps it was the Maker's providence, perhaps it was dumb luck, but her dagger found a weak place in the ogre's leathery skin, and penetrated the brain stem. It roared, sinew tearing and bile erupting. She was flung free; her dog dragged the monster down and went for the throat.

His companion was so small, really, couldn't have weighed more than eight stone, and like a flat pebble on the water, she skidded across the smooth floor. Her body was heaving, twitching silently. He finally found his breath, croaking, "Lissa?"

_We can't both be- someone has to- _

It was a whole minute before she responded, in a voice of mirth: "Fine, I'm fine!" Maker, she was laughing again! "Saw my life in front of my eyes, but I'm fine. Suddenly I'm grateful Mother spent so much time teaching me to dance, ha ha!"

"What?" The woman was unhinged. Surely. "Never mind. I thought you were hurt." His stomach was rolling.

She pulled herself up on a column: wobbly knees and unsteady breath. "Disappointed?" The dog gave a happy bark. It was smeared with the blood of the ogre; it was consuming the eyeballs and the flesh of the face. Frightening creature.

"No. But I thought I was going to have to drag myself to the signal fire."

She sobered, hurrying to his side. "I thought it was just the wind knocked out of you."

"Yes, that and a bit more." _What is that wheezing noise? Oh, that's me. _Elissa hovered over him. Her eyes were big pools. From here, he could see the color, green. "You look a little frazzled. Don't they cover combat medicine... in that... manor of yours?"

"Mother Mallol said I was a lost cause. Decent grasp of anatomy, but no bedside manners. No, um, patience. Should I take off your breastplate?" Her hair fell toward his face in sweaty ribbons.

"I don't know. My ribs, my shoulder, my arm... I think the armor might be holding me together."

"There's blood in your mouth. On your teeth." She touched his face, to wipe his cheeks. Her hands were not soft like he expected, but rather rough with calluses and chewed nails.

"That means there's blood on the inside. Could be bad." He coughed. "Feels bad. Do we have any healing potions?"

"No, but I can look for one. There are plenty of bodies-"

"Elissa, go light the signal fire. Duncan and the king need us to do it. I'll be fine. We'll find a healer after the battle is over."

"But you don't look-"

"Signal the teryn. Do your duty. Please, for me." He must have imagined the look on her face then, like she'd seen a spirit. Giving orders made him queasy.

The whole room filled with bright things, the shadows driven away. The sound of battle was clearer from here, louder. Hot bile rose in his throat; it hurt. Still he smiled when she returned. His vision was swimming; she looked glowing, magical... red and gold. "You look like the Bride of the Maker." He grinned sloppily to the woman who cradled his head. "I take it back. You are pretty." She had a beautiful silhouette. "Good nose."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. Her voice was strained. Was she stroking his hair? "I think you're hallucinating. Hush, Alistair, save your strength. I'm sorry, I couldn't find a potion. But I won't leave you alone for this."

Suddenly, he knew. And what's more, he knew she knew. He should have been scared, but he was too tired to be. Didn't have time. He wondered what kind of eulogy Duncan would give him. Duncan who was- "What's happening out there?"

"My mother refused to leave my father. She died protecting him, so that he could know a peaceful end. I wanted to stay. Duncan wouldn't let me."

Alistair struggled to follow this abrupt confession. "Your parents are...?"

"My father said it was my duty to be a Grey Warden. I think I might have hated him, the last moment I saw him. I didn't know. I didn't understand." He found it hard to reconcile this soft-spoken woman with the laughing valkyrie of battle. He found it hard to think at all.

"You never said any of this to us. Daveth had... had money on you being..." He caught himself. It wasn't a polite thing to share with a lady. "Duncan said it was your story to tell. For what it's worth, I'm sorry for your loss."

"I was never supposed to be here. I was so angry. But I think I got it, when I killed that, that- thing. I've been trained to be a soldier. To do my duty. To protect Highever. But it's all gone. Rendon, he- betrayed. He was like my uncle. Nathaniel, Delilah, Thomas," she shook her head. "If I hadn't been so... well, I would have been one of them."

She spoke for a while, sad but soothing, telling him how her mother had been a talented archer, and had pressed her to be clever if she could not be strong; how this Nathaniel had taught her all the rogue skills that her mother found unbecoming: how to pick a lock, how to pick a pocket, how to lie convincingly. He went away to become a knight in the Free Marches. Alistair got the impression that she might have been in love with this boy. He began to fade out when she told him of Fergus. Her brother? They had drilled at swords together... He was cold, cold all the way through, and couldn't get warm...

The trumpets sounded, and then, like the dark fingers of the archdemon himself, a wailing began on the wind.

"Elissa, what's happening?" He couldn't feel his fingers. There were noises below them. "You looked out."

"You shouldn't have to..." She ran her fingers over his closed eyelids. "I'm sorry."

He could hear the panic in her breathing, but it seemed so distant. Muted. "What's happening?" he repeated.

"The army has been routed," she said. "The darkspawn have the field. I couldn't see what happened. We are surrounded by the bulk of the horde. There's no chance of escape for us."

"Loghain failed?" That seemed impossible, as impossible as the Grey Wardens falling. "What about Duncan? What about the other Wardens? And Cailan?!" Ugly pain in his side, his body refusing to allow him to sit up. Something pricked in his eyes, blinding him. "Could you see?"

"Alistair, I-" A crash. She jerked upright, looking to the door. "Ah. I've left my father's sword stuck in the ogre. Well then."

"What's...?" The question hung on his lips. Without her to support his neck, he could no longer lift his head. And what he could see stunned his tongue.

"Not to worry, dear, just some visitors." There was only time for her to square her shoulders to face their new enemies. The arrow split the air, hissing; it buried itself in her white throat. A bloody rose bloomed from the strike, and she crumpled down upon him. He was sure she was dead before she fell; the body was heavy enough to jolt his injuries, and he cried out wordlessly. The pain was too much, and he accepted the rushing darkness. The dog howled.


	2. Snake

He was having the nightmare, _the_ nightmare, the one he had had since he was a mewling tot in a trundle bed. The dark wings. The flapping feathers, the sharp claws, lifting him up and carrying him away- Chantry Sister Hume, his nurse since birth, would scoop him up in her big soft arms and tell him that he was safe. She called him, "my little prince, my beloved," in her low Orlesian voice. He did not know then, could not have understood, that his real mother was gone, that Hume's own baby had been born dead. That she had become addled with her grief. But he knew that she loved him. And that in her embrace, he was safe.

They had not cast him out right away, no. They had to know first that Queen Rowan's child was strong and healthy and would not succumb to any of the dangerous sicknesses of childhood. Alistair was the spare- no use in wasting a perfectly good boychild. Eamon had no wife, no children- the girl he had loved during the rebellion had been ruined by a chevalier and- the nursery was empty. So he had his own place in Redcliffe Castle, warm and cozy and full of soft things, and more toys and books than any one child had use for. A wooden sword. A tin helmet just his very own size. Sweet cakes and cow's milk and the promise of a pony when he was older.

Only a few knew the truth of his birth. Despite the fact that Alistair's very existence was a slight upon the memory of his dead sister, still fresh in her grave when Alistair was born, Eamon Guerrin treated him like his own son, and so Redcliffe came to believe that the little towheaded lordling was the child of their arl and a dead servant girl. He was practical, Eamon, and took the task of raising Maric's brat quite seriously. The younger Guerrin, Teagan, took to him in the way only a child-uncle could: dragging the boy with him into his lessons, instructing him at table, and romping about with their puppies.

Alistair called him "uncle," but only in private, for he had been reprimanded harshly for being so familiar. It had been an accident. He was beside himself on the day they took Hume away from him, the day after his fourth birthday, because big lads didn't need their wet nurses any more. The large woman sobbed into her vestments. He had pleaded, "Papa, no! Please! I need her!" They were dragging her away! He didn't want to be alone! He reached for her-

SLAP! His teeth rattled in his head. He was too stunned to cry. "Alistair, I am not your father," said the bearded man sternly, crouching to be on his level, "and she is not your mother. You must make sense of your place in the world."

"But I..." He rocked from one foot to another, trying hard not to blubber.

"You are no longer a baby, to be coddled at her breast. And I will not always be able to protect you. Today's lesson: you must learn to watch your tongue. Alistair, look me in the eye. Alistair, now." Reluctantly, the boy met the arl's unblinking gaze. It was not a cruel face. In fact, Eamon seemed sad. He reached out, and gently smoothed away the red mark. "Every noble child in Fereldan must know: secrets are important. They protect the king. You want to protect the king, don't you?"

"Yes," said Alistair bravely, puffing up his little chest. "The king is 'portant."

"Yes he is," agreed Eamon. "The king keeps us safe. He looks after the best interests of all the people. Especially us. He makes sure everybody has a place. What is my place?"

"Arl," said the child, after some thought, though it came out sounding like "owl."

"Very good." Eamon nodded. "What about Cailan?"

Alistair smiled. "Prince!" He liked to hear stories about Cailan. They came in the letters from Denerim. Cailan was his brother. Cailan liked books.

"Right again. Now a hard one. What is _your_ place?"

His small brow furrowed. "I'm Alistair."

"Indeed. And what would you like to be?" Eamon coaxed.

"I 'unno. Big."

"You will be."

"Protect the king?" Alistair asked, averting his gaze, toying with his tunic.

The arl sighed and pulled him into an embrace. "If you would like, my boy," he said into his hair. "Cailan will be the king some day. You understand?"

"Yes. I can help him."

"You might. Some people would not like that, though."

"Why?"

"I will explain when you're older."

"I'm four." He pushed up four fingers. "This many. I'ma big lad now." He made a snuffling noise, remembering that being big meant that he couldn't have his nursemaid. She hadn't even given him his goodbye present.

"Very well. But let us find a chair, child. My knees are aching from the floor." Eamon stood up, slowly, releasing Alistair. There was just one chair in the nursery, a big soft one by the dying fire where Hume would knit. She told stories about Orlais, about Andraste's army, about brave queen Rowan. She liked stories about women, and had wanted to be a bard, but she had been born in the Chantry. She had been in the service of the last Orlesian governor at Redcliffe before the Guerrins came back from the Free Marches, and knew the woman Eamon was courting.

Now, no more stories.

"Alistair. You may be too young to understand this, but you are a secret."

"Why?"

"Everyone has a place. But some people do not understand yours. They think you will try to take Cailan's place."

"Why?"

"Because you are Maric's son."

"Oh." Alistair climbed up into Eamon's lap. "Why can't you be my papa?"

"Because I am not." The boy Alistair looked into his guardian's face. There was a strange ripple, as though light was bouncing off the surface of a pond. Something changed. "But if you would like me to be, I will be your papa. You can stay with me here at Redcliffe forever. I won't marry that Orlesian temptress, and you and Teagan can be my heirs."

Alistair beamed a smile, snuggling into Eamon's embrace. It was warm, and safe, and peaceful.

"You're not actually buying this, are you?" queried an unfamiliar voice.

"Who are you?" asked Alistair, afraid. A dark haired woman stepped into the light of the fire, strangely dressed. She was smirking, and she had eyes like a snake.

"Don't listen to her, son," said Eamon, holding him tighter. "She's a witch, come to take you away from me."

Alistair whimpered. "No. Go away."

"Templar, none of this is real. This is a dream. You are not a little boy, and he is not your new father. He is a spirit, trying to keep you trapped in the Fade."

"Shh, I will send her away. You can stay with me," whispered Eamon, reassuring. "Don't worry, Alistair."

"Alistair, is it?" she came closer, touching him. She was beautiful, and frightening, and her touch made his heart race. "You must know that this is a dream. I'm sure this is a very touching scene, but it is not real. Could never be. I have little patience for these games, spirit. You will let him go now."

"He's mine," spat Eamon, expanding in size. Bigger and bigger, and he was a thing with dark wings, holding him tight, squeezing the life out of him.

"Let me go!" Alistair screamed, a scared little boy in the grips of his nightmare. "Please, Eamon!" The witch drew her staff and fired a spell, striking the dark creature. It was a large bird. The floor gave way, and they all fell...

It was hot. And cold. Gripped in the claws of fever, Alistair struggled. Time meant nothing. The dark haired stranger muttered nonsense words, fed him mouthfuls of broth, touched places that would have made him blush, if he could have spared the blood. The old woman was there, too, instructing, crushing sickly-sweet herbs in her mortar and pestle. He hurt, everywhere, but gradually he did not. He could not think of a time before the cool and the dark, the wet cloth on his face.

It was light the first time he woke. _Ugh, I'm all sweaty._ He felt around. _I'm in bed. A proper bed. I haven't seen a proper bed in months._ "I'm in my smallclothes!" he gasped. "Ow." His throat was dry, his lips cracked. His eyes were so bleary he could hardly see.

"I was beginning to think you would never come around." The woman was tending her cooking pot on the hearth. "It would have been a shame for you to die when we spent so much effort preventing it."

"You!" he croaked.

"Yes, me. I am Morrigan. You will be thirsty, I suppose." She fed him water with a ladle. It was cold, and sweet, and he drank greedily. His stomach felt like it would burst. "Careful. Don't want that coming back up."

"Where am I?" Alistair sat up, feeling strength return to him with the water.

"You are in my mother's hut, in the Wilds."

"How?"

"What do you remember?" She set the ladle back in the pail.

Alistair considered this. His chest and arm was heavily bandaged, but he could feel no pain when he flexed his muscles. "There was a battle. And an ogre." He laughed, feeling self conscious. "I'm not sure. I was crushed. Nothing after that. How did I get here?" His eyes darted around the room. One bed, a cooking fire, a large chest. Bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. A wash basin. A broom. _Heh, witch's broom_.

"You and your companion were killed. Mother turned into a giant bird and plucked your corpses off the tower."

_Impossible_. "Killed?"

"Or something very like it."

"Ha, I don't feel dead." He took stock. _Two eyes, two ears, two hands... one cock... important bits, check._

"I had to drag you kicking and screaming out of the Fade," she sniffed, unimpressed. "You have daddy issues."

Alistair's stomach turned. "So what you're saying is, I was dead, through the Veil, and you forced my spirit _back_ into my body. I think I'm going to be sick."

"No you're not, not in the bed," she hissed, hastily offering him a bucket. "Besides, you're alive now. Intact, even. Your injuries were not too much for Mother to overcome."

"It's not natural, using magic like that. You apostates could be abominations, for all I know."

"I'm not an abomination, Templar," she snapped, her voice rising in pitch. _Ooh, hurt her feelings._

"I'm not a Templar! I'm a Grey Warden!" he snarled back, pushing himself out of bed. For a moment, his legs felt like jellied eels, and he wobbled. She steadied him. Her touch reminded him of something, something scary. His heart stuttered. "You don't have to- I'm fine."

"You don't look it. You look like the most ungrateful man I've ever met."

Alistair grinned. "You must not have met very many men." _Okay, that was a weird thing to say. Regroup._ _There's something important-_ He pulled away. "You said you picked up my companion. She's dead?"

Morrigan folded her arms. "No."

A crumb of relief to cling to. "Ah... thank the Maker."

"You both have been very sick for several weeks. She came to nearly two days ago. She's outside now, with Mother."

"Great, um, good, um... excellent. Well. If you will give me my armor, please, we will have to try and catch up with Duncan. The Grey probably think we're dead. Which we, uh, I guess we were." He was struck with the urge to get out of this place. The woman's snake-eyes made his skin crawl. She did not move like a Fereldan woman. Maybe all Korcari witches swayed their hips so, like an adder trying to hypnotize a shrew.

"You do not remember? Your brain might be addled worse than I thought... The army was routed at the old fortress. The Blight has advanced into your country."

"What?"

"Your king perished on the battlefield. The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field."

"No, that's not possible." It felt like the wind had been knocked out of him, all over again. He sank down onto the bed. _Cailan, he can't be... no!_ _He was so excited to join us, to be like his parents, riding off to victory with the Wardens. He must have heard the stories so many more times that I did._

"My Mother witnessed it. She reports that your Wardens were massacred." She delivered this blow so calmly.

His belly went queer when he thought of Duncan and then he was reaching for her bucket. He vomited water and acid and shuddered all over, tears leaking unbidden from the violence of the action. "Are you quite finished?" He retched again, but nothing more would come. "Your friend wanted to tell you herself, but I volunteered. I thought it would be easier if it came from some one... less involved." She took the slop pail from him with distaste, holding it far away from herself. "Perhaps I was wrong. You should go speak to her. Your clothes are in the chest; I will leave you be."

All he could think about was how much he needed a piss. It was strange, not being able to think of it. Duncan dead. Cailan dead. All the others. All his friends. _I was dead, too._ _The Cousland girl, dead_. What had she said to him on the tower? He dressed slowly, mechanically, fingers stiff and unfamiliar to him. First his shirt and trousers, which had been laundered fresh. The witches were very clean people. Then his socks, which were full of holes. His codpiece was dented. His chainmail shirt was permanently bloodstained, as were his boots. The heaviest pieces required someone else to buckle them. He carried them out. There was silence ringing in his ears. _"There's no chance of escape for us."_

"Was she right?" he asked himself. He felt so tired. Alistair pushed open the door and crossed the threshold, into a small clearing in the swamp. All his life, he had counted on other people to tell him what to do next. But he was at a loss. There was no leader here. Eamon and the Chantry had fostered obedience, not leadership. Eamon... Eamon might still know what to do, now.

He went stomping off into the brush to relieve himself. The mosquitoes didn't seem to mind the cold of the south. After, he came across a familiar figure in armor. She wore a soft yellow sash, bound around her neck. Her hair was clean but curling madly in the humid air. Beside her laid her dog, napping in the morning sun. _How in the hell did he get here?_

"Morrigan tells me you didn't take the news very well," said the woman. She was sitting on a fallen tree, whittling away at a stick with her knife. "Neither did I."

Alistair could not see either of the Wilds witches. Where they had gone, he did not care. He stood behind Elissa, not feeling like sitting. "I reacted... physically," he admitted.

"I tried to put a hole in Flemeth with this little pig-sticker. Came to my senses, though. I'm pretty sure they're not the enemy, since they saved our lives. At least forty percent sure." She gestured with her weapon. "Hungry? I've got some bread in my pack."

"No, I'm not hungry." He grimaced. He wasn't sure he'd ever be hungry again. "You any good at assembling armor?"

"You want me to try my hand at squiring? I could oblige."

"Thanks." He dropped his plate to the earth. "Hey, did you say Flemeth? As in, _the_ Flemeth, who fought the hero Cormac?"

"Isn't that a story? I'm not very good at remembering the old tales," Elissa noted. "My teacher, Aldous, used to say there was a whistling noise between my ears. But I'm pretty sure that was his snoring."

"I had an instructor at the monastery who was _obsessed_ with Flemeth. Asha'bellanar. Very dramatic. Said she was going to come into our beds in the dead of night and snatch up our seed to make demon daughters with. I think he thought she was a succubus or a desire demon."

"Huh? Damn, that's a better story than I ever got from Aldous." She buckled his shoulder piece. "Any of it true? Is Morrigan a-" she whistled "- demon daughter?"

"I would hate to ask. There's about five different versions of the story, anyways. Who knows what you can believe. The gist is the same, though- she's bad news."

"She protected the Warden treaties. She saved us," Elissa countered, biting her lip as she focused on her task. "Damn rusty clasps," she muttered.

"Yes, and at what cost, I wonder? The stories all agree upon one thing- witches always want something in return."

"Is that so?" said the old woman from behind them. Where had she come from? Perhaps she had transformed herself into a bird again. "Are you so selfless that you do while expecting nothing?" Alistair turned. Here was the infamous Witch of the Wilds. And here was her Chasind daughter.

Alistair was angry, but he couldn't find the words for it. She had... violated him in the manner in which she had saved him. It went against everything he had ever been taught. "I-" he shook his head.

"Well, speak up boy."

"It's not fair. I don't make bargains without knowing the terms. I was not given a choice."

Flemeth smiled, her wizened face creasing at the hollows. "The choice was simple. You lived or you died. _In absentia_, I believe a sensible course of action was taken."

"You should have saved Duncan and Cailan. They were our leaders. We needed them."

She nodded. "You feel you are expendable? Very well, you were expendable. But I could not have reached them, had I wanted. Some things in motion cannot be stopped." She indicated to his comrade. "And what of you, girl? I have found you to be unexpectedly wise, for your age and experience."

"Really?"

"I _expect_ nothing."

Elissa blinked, undoubtedly holding back a sharp remark. She exhaled, shoved her knife deep in the log, and stood. "I made my peace with my death, when it came for me. But I'm not fatalist. Given the chance to live, I'll choose life over the alternative."

"A smart girl."

"Come now, Mother, surely the only honest choice is life," disagreed Morrigan. "One need not be clever to follow the most basic of instincts. The man is either an idiot, or he feels guilty for surviving when his associates did not."

"Do not speak when you have nothing to add to the conversation, girl," Flemeth rebuked.

"It's not that I'm not grateful, because... I am," tried Alistair. "I like being alive. I do. I disagree with your methods, but here I am. Breathing, and all. But I want to know why."

"A reasonable request, though I cannot oblige. I cannot say why I do what I do. Perhaps it is the fancy of an old woman. My magic has served you both well, has it not?"

"Yes, but-"

"You are living Grey Wardens. It has always been the Grey Wardens' duty to unite the lands against the Blight. Or did that change when I wasn't looking?"

"No, you're right," said Elissa, frowning. "We still have the treaties. Though I do not know what use they will be to us."

"I know them well," Morrigan offered. "I can educate you on the finer points before you leave." Elissa met the look of the mage. _How have they become so chummy so fast?_

"Fereldan will hardly be united after- first Howe, now Loghain. And they have so much time on us."

Alistair had been so distracted over the news of the death of his brother and his mentor that he had barely been able to consider Teryn Loghain. "Why would he do it? I don't understand. Cailan was the son of his best friend!"

"Now that is a good question. Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature," murmured Flemeth.

The witch was speaking in riddles. Again. She lectured briefly on the history of the archdemons, explaining to the newest warden the story of Tevinter and the Old Gods. It should have been Duncan's lesson to teach.

"If it's Grey Wardens needed, shouldn't we send to Orlais?"

"I had that thought, too," Alistair agreed, "But there isn't time. They were supposed to meet Cailan's army and provide reinforcements against the darkspawn. But it's been weeks. If they're not here, then they have been told it is not a true Blight and returned home. It will take too long to reassemble and march from Orlais."

"There is another matter," she began. "Duncan conscripted me, but... now he's dead. I want to... I should focus on reclaiming Highever. If my brother Fergus is alive, he will need me to lead his army. If he's... if he perished," she swallowed, "then I am the new teryna. I would be more useful in the Landsmeet. I must bring word of Rendon Howe's crimes, the poisonous bastard."

"Be that as it may, there won't be a Highever, or even a Thedas," interjected Flemeth, "if the Wardens do not warn Ferelden. You would leave the boy to do it by himself? To go play in your civil war?"

"No, but-"

"You're both right," said Alistair. "Whatever Loghain's insanity, he obviously thinks the darkspawn are a minor threat. We must warn everyone this isn't the case. We can use the Landsmeet, maybe. I think. But you said it yourself, who knows what sort of poison Howe has been spreading? With Bryce and Eleanor Cousland dead- and again, I'm so sorry- the next strongest voice is Arl Eamon Guerrin in Redcliffe. We will need his support."

"Eamon?" pressed Elissa. "I hardly know him. What makes you think he would stand against Loghain?"

"But _I_ know him. If Arl Eamon knew what Loghain did at Ostagar, he would be the first to call for his execution. He betrayed his own king." Alistair gritted his teeth. _Eamon will help catch this snake._

"The Guerrins _are_ royalists. As ardent as we Couslands. And they have an intact army. Redcliffe wasn't at Ostagar." She looked thoughtful. "But I knew Queen Anora when we were girls. Just one teryn's daughter to another, mind. She's charming, manipulative, and very, very loyal to her father. And she will have the ear of the Landsmeet just as strongly as Eamon."

"It sounds as though your goals are not entirely at cross purposes," commented Flemeth.

Elissa nodded. "Okay. I'm in. But we need a plan. A good plan."

"The Grey Warden treaties oblige certain parties to provide aid during a Blight. Your subjugated mages, the Dalish elves, and the Orzammar dwarves must lend soldiers," added Morrigan. "T'would be useful to have many kinds of allies."

"I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else... this sounds like an army to me. And you said you were prepared to lead an army."

Elissa flushed. "It's one thing to be trained to command soldiers. It's quite another to do it, and strangers as well. Theoretically, I can do it. Of course, theoretically I can keep a budget for an estate and do my own hair, but as you can see," she indicated to her uneven locks, "it's theory." She stage-whispered to him, "There aren't any lady's maids in the Wardens, so..." She made a _shhhhick_ sound with her tongue, miming cutting off her red hair.

"Well, I think it looks nice," he assured. It didn't, but it would have been mean to say otherwise. She squinted at him, so he tacked on: "It'll, um, grow out."

She turned back to the old woman, clicking her tongue in disapproval. "So, we have two Wardens on a grand mission to _save the world_, and my dog, who somehow chased you all the way back here. No supplies, no money, not very many friends. And I left my family sword in a fucking ogre."

Flemeth chuckled. "A truthful observation, _my lady_. I cannot magic you back your sword. But I can provide you with something better than a sword. Morrigan, when the Wardens leave, you will be going with them."

"What?" her daughter sputtered.

"What?!" hiccuped Alistair.

"You heard me, girl. The last time I looked, you had ears," she laughed. "You know your way through the Wilds, and can lead them on the safe paths around the horde. Her magic will be useful to you. She has already saved you once, in what you call the Fade. And she is a shape-changer. She can scout from the skies where you cannot."

"Sounds very useful."

_Oh, Maker's breath!_ Alistair pulled her aside. "Lissa, you can't be serious. She's a witch. Maybe a useful one, but not a _nice_ one."

"Alistair, consider this the cost of our bargain; she is the repayment."

"Mother, I am not a pawn in your game, nor am I a deal to be struck!"

"Hush! You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Don't tell me you would not jump at the opportunity to see the world, had I not been the one suggesting it?"

"Look. Not to... look a gift horse in the mouth, but won't this add to our problems? Out of the Wilds, she's an apostate."

"There is the matter of your clothes," Elissa said. "Very pretty, yes, here in Chasind territory, but you'll stick out in civilization."

"As though your country was somehow the be-all of the civil world," retorted Morrigan, smarting. "I have read that feathers are popular in Orlais."

"But you look like a witch. Like, more than usual. A witchy-witch." _Sounded better in my head_.

"I am a witch!" Morrigan blurted. "No, I will not engage in these games. I am a mage." She covered her face with her hands. _Half naked witch._ He shivered, determined to not stare at her exposed busom.

"If it makes you feel better, dear," Flemeth soothed. "If this is a concern to you, there is a Fereldan village not far to the north. Perhaps you can procure acceptable garments there."

"This one is not telling me how to dress. Nor that one."

"You'll listen to the Wardens, if you want a home to come back to. They are the only chance against the Blight."

"But I'm... not even ready."

"They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I." They looked each other in the eyes, sharing an expression that Alistair could not translate.

"I..." she capitulated, "understand." There was sadness there, and fire too.

"And do you, Wardens? Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in the world. I do this because you _must_ succeed."

Alistair was suddenly reminded of the day when he, but a ten year old boy, had been banished from the only home he had ever known and sent off to the monastery. How angry he had been, and how lonely. "I understand," he echoed quietly.

Elissa shook her head. "We'll do or die trying. Barring any further rescues from the Fade." She looked to the witches, smiling. "No? Fine. I understand, Flemeth. You remind me of my mother. Not sure how I feel about that, actually."

* * *

><p>some dialogue © BiowareEA and quoted, no ownership implied


	3. Champion

There were no enormous magical birds or angry demigods flapping about their heads. Yet. It should have been as simple as following the path out of the mire.

He had been wrong, of course; at this point, it should not have surprised him. The wastes were endless, inscrutable. There were things, things he'd never even heard of before: quicksand, a kind of squelching muddy trick of nature which would slowly drag you to your death (faster in heavy armor); bogholes twenty feet or deeper, full of fetid water, slippery sided, which could drown even the largest animals; old magics and haunted reliquaries discarded by mages fleeing into the Wilds...

What passed for paths appeared, often forked. One seemed equally good as another. But thirty paces on they would vanish, and where there had been trail there was stone cliff-face, or brackish water, or worse. Ruins mouldered. Sunlight filtered though the branches as insects hissed and hummed their strange melodies. Sweat pooled in his unmentionable areas. _If we find a source of clean water, I swear I'm taking a bath. The girls will just have to close their eyes. _But there was precious little to drink, just his flask for the lot. The witch would only begrudgingly cast her purification spell to make it potable. As though it was some great inconvenience to keep them alive.

In the night, they bunked down on the damp greens, taking turns on watch. There was no chance of a fire, not with the darkspawn all about. Alistair would have been grateful for just a few warm embers, and took to sleeping with the dog. Morrigan took to the trees as a cat. Elissa, who was clearly unused to lying on the ground, barely slept at all. Every shudder in the wind, every hoot of the owl, every snapping twig had them bolting up, reaching for their weapons.

"Why don't you try and close your eyes?" Alistair whispered encouragingly as he took a seat beside her. "I'll wake you if anything comes. It'll only be a few hours until the dawn breaks."

"No. I can't," she murmured in reply. She was flat on her back, knees pulled up, hands resting on her stomach.

His back was aching, and his eyes were heavy. The cold had settled deep in his bones, beyond shivering now. He could only begin to imagine how she would be feeling. She was just a girl, and a lady at that. She had probably never spent nights in the hay, like he had as a child, avoiding Isolde's rampages. Isolde- now there's a woman he wouldn't have minded seeing sleepless on the cold ground.

"You know, my nan used to say that if I didn't shut my eyes and go to sleep like a good little lad, a sloth demon would come out from under the bed, and make me."

Lissa chuckled, and tucked a hand up and under her head. "I think my nan might have told me something like that, too. I wouldn't want to have to fight off a demon just because some wife's tale turned out to be true."

"I'll kill it for you," Alistair assured her. "No one's getting snatched on my watch. Not even miss grouchy-whiskers in the tree." A hiss echoed down from above. "Ahahaha, Morrigan, you're not a very scary witch when you weigh less than a stone soaking wet."

"Shush, she could still claw you, haha." They shared a quiet laugh together. The wind blew their voices away, and it seemed to grow even darker. As his eyes re-adjusted to the night, he could see that she was trembling. "I-"

_Hell_. In what must have been a fit of insanity, he lifted her up and pulled her onto his lap.

"Hey," she yelped, struggling in his strong arms, "what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Lis- oh relax- I'm not taking advantage of you. Just trust me!" She stilled, and let him pull her closer. "I would never." His mouth was close to her chilled pink ear, and the hot breath made her twitch. "You're cold, and you're exhausted, and you need to rest, or else tomorrow I'm going to be carrying you."

"You expect me to sleep like this?" she huffed, but the places where their bodies met were warming quickly. Groaning, she pressed herself tight to his broad chest. It was not precisely comfortable for him, either. She was all long limbs and bony bits and her ass was square_, square_ on his crotch. He exhaled, willing himself not to get an erection. Years with the Templars had enforced pretty good body control, he thought, but they weren't miracle workers. _Holding a woman. Hoooolding a wo-man. Don't think about it. How can her hair still smell so good when we're in a swamp? Bad thought! Explain!_

"They say you should huddle together for warmth."

"Who says?" He thought he saw her eyes close.

"Um, I don't know. People do."

"My mother would not approve."

"Mm."

Her voice was small. "But she's dead now."

"Lissa..." He didn't know what to say. What did people say, wrapped around each other like vines on a tree? He had never taken a woman to bed, not even a prostitute. They weren't supposed to, but sometimes a templar would take up with a sister. They were very beautiful and virtuous, just like the one they worshiped, and very tempting. If they were lucky and had a kind Mother, and the woman was not affirmed, they might be married, and be allowed to live within the Chantry together. If they were less fortunate, they would be banished from each other, like Sister Hume. No one was allowed to leave the Templars. _Except me, I guess._

"When we were kids, Nate used to tell us this ghost story. Near his home, there was this place called the Blackmarsh. He liked to scare me and Thomas with it."

"Who's Nate?"

"I told you," she shifted a little, "I told you at Ostagar. Maybe you don't remember."

"Sorry, it's more or less a blank." _Flemeth's doing._

"That's okay. He's an old friend, from childhood."

"Ah." _One of the servant boys_, he imagined.

"Legend goes that the Blackmarsh used to have a village full of people there. But one day, they all vanished, without a trace. And any adventurer that goes looking in the marsh never comes home again. All who valued their lives would do well to stay away..."

They both jumped at a sudden noise. _Maker's love! Just a frog_. Alistair cleared his throat. "Lovely story. Very fitting for the atmosphere. I thought you didn't remember tales?"

"Only when I'm in damned bog myself and I'm piss-scared," she groused. "How can I sleep? Nate used to say that we should go exploring in the Blackmarsh when I was older. Even Fergus thought it was too dangerous, and he was never chicken for anything." She rested her face against his throat. He could feel her eyelashes flutter against the scruff of his beard; it was odd, ticklish, and made his stomach feel strange. "Do you think he's out here somewhere, hiding in the Wilds?"

"Who, Nate?"

"No, Fergus, my brother. Has he gone to the Chasind? The last report of him before the battle was that he was scouting with some of the Highever boys." She yawned expressively.

_Dead, probably_, he could not say. "Of course. He's out here somewhere, just like us."

"Huddling together for warmth?"

"Yup. Just so."

He felt sleep overtake her. Though his body was screaming for a stretch, and his feet had gone to pins and needles, he held as still as he could. She trusted him, and he would not, could not break that trust. _Ninety-nine bottles of ale on the wall... ninety-nine bottles of ale..._

Two days in, Elissa was picking up the knack for the Chasind trail signs- a pile of stones here, a felled tree there- as they moved due north. Morrigan sometimes appeared to explain, always and only to her, the particular meaning of a marker, but most of the time she took the form of a small starling. The bird had vibrant plumage- purple, blue, and glossy black- and circled them overhead, gorging on flying pests and keeping watch for darkspawn. The first time she had transformed it had been startling. Now, Alistair barely reacted to the sound, which was like a campfire cracking or popping.

"These Blight wolves are becoming a real menace," he said with an exaggerated sigh, pulling his weapon from the belly of a slaughtered beast. "How is it that the farmers have not been overrun by the packs?"

"They put down traps, of course," replied Morrigan. "Some will even pay for poisons. There is a woman just outside Lothering who trades in kind for her venom."

Elissa pried a bow from the bony hands of a hunter's corpse. "Do you sell them?"

"No, not I. I found that other goods were more profitable: warming balms, healing salves, and the like. The Fereldan peasants always had use for these, and I had use for their coin."

Alistair shook his head. "Good to know that you won't poison our ears or something in our sleep."

She looked at him, quizzically. "Do not think that I could not."

"Wonderful. I'll sleep with one eye open."

"See that you do."

"Poison is a favorite of the nobility," said Lissa. "It is more the tool of the assassin than the witch. Many are educated in the art in equal measure, both in brewing the foul things and in detecting the handiwork of others." She tested the torque of the bowstring. It _twanged_ under her fingers. "Ah. Still functional. My mother, for example, was a battlemaiden in her wilder days, an archer in the war. I've heard she was almost _unnaturally_ fond of poisoned barbs."

_Well, that's disturbing_.

"A sensible woman," Morrigan endorsed.

_Doubly disturbing._

"My father thought so," Elissa smiled. She strapped her new bow to her pack. "I'm a fair shot, but she was always better; I never could compete. It takes great arm strength, and more than that, the patience to wait for the air to be right. Nevertheless, I'm hoping to take some of these arrows and bag us some dinner. I'm absolutely famished."

The mabari whined, and Alistair was inclined to agree with him. At least the hound had been able to munch on the odd fluffy thing. He wasn't as particular as his human companions. Flemeth's soft, lovely bread had run out quick as a whistle between the two of them, even with Morrigan not partaking. _If I had bothered to supply, instead of marching off feeling sorry for myself, we might have lasted to the village_, he thought. But kicking himself now would not put food in their grumbling stomachs. "I think I just saw a Blight rabbit." _Blight bunny!_ "All the animals seem to be Tainted."

"Tis strange to have so many wolves, and none of the giant spiders which make their dens here," Morrigan said. "Perhaps they are immune to the Taint, and so are driven from their homes like the humans?"

"Do you think that the dog is immune?" Elissa asked, stroking her pet's bloody muzzle. "He's made a feast out of many corrupted creatures, but I haven't seen any signs of the wasting sickness."

"I seem to recall that he took a big chunk out of the ogre."

"And that squirrel did not seem normal."

"Too spiky," Alistair corroborated.

Morrigan shrugged. "I do not know the answer. Mother plied him with many kinds of potions while you were unconscious. It is possible that she sought to offer him the same kind of protection that your Grey Warden ritual gives you."

"What do you know about the Joining?" Alistair tried to school his face to blankness, but his voice betrayed his emotion.

"It is not as secret as your order would make it out to be. Everyone knows that the Wardens are the only people protected from the Taint. The records left behind by the old Warden mages indicate some of the particulars of the ritual. Time, however, took away much before Flemeth could preserve them. Do not worry. I cannot make copies of you." She smirked, tossing her staff from one hand to the other. He gave a mental sigh of relief. _She doesn't know about the Calling._

"I for one wouldn't mind a few more Wardens running about," pacified Elissa. "Hunger is making fools of us all. Come along dog, let us find a nice fat wood duck."

They talked to distract themselves from the hunger, the exhaustion, the mind numbing monotony. Morrigan quickly grew sick of their company, and said as much. Alistair didn't care. None of her animal forms were helpful in fetching them supper.

"Why do you call him _dog_?" he asked Elissa. They were much further along, finally out of the Hinterlands and onto a proper dirt road. The first sight of home had raised their spirits, even though it was a dim one, in the fading light of a bloody sunset. The trees stood as black skeletons. "Don't you like his name?"

"He doesn't have one."

"Why not? I thought all mabaris had names, like people. Isn't it bad luck?"

She looked perplexed. "Not in Highever. I've never heard that before." She shifted the weight of her pack to her other shoulder. "Did you hear that, dog? You must be the source of our misfortunes." It barked back at her. "This one's mother was called Champion. She was a beautiful purebred bitch; gigantic and absolutely scary as hell. Champion was my father's most faithful hunting hound, and her sire was with Bryce during the war, I think. My father always had a special relationship with his hounds. Called me _Pup_ from the day I was born."

"Maybe he thought you were dog-faced."

"Hey!"

"Joking, really."

"Say that to me when I have a sword in my hand again," she grinned.

"I wouldn't dare."

"So. Yes. Champion was quite old by the time she had her only litter. Father was away in the capital. She wasn't intended for breeding, see, because she got her hip all mangled in a tussle with a bear. It was hard for her, as it often is with purebreds. Only whelped three pups, and she rejected the smallest one."

"They usually cull them, don't they?" Alistair recalled, thinking back on his hazy memories of Teagan and the Redcliffe kennels.

"Yes. I was fifteen, and quite stubborn. Demanded that they give me the chance to raise him myself. Fergus told me it was impossible, but I was in love with the little thing. We called him Runt. I made a bed for him out of blankets in my bedroom, and pestered Nan until she helped me bottle feed him."

Alistair glanced to the hulking dog at her flank. "Well, he's not little any more."

"And he wouldn't be," agreed Elissa, with her mouth quirking up at one side. "Turns out I'm not terribly motherly, and stubbornness cannot solve all ills. Fergus was right. Runt died within the week. The pup was sick, and Champion could smell it."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Father presented me with another pup from the litter when he returned to Highever. He missed the whole spectacle."

"And you never named him?"

"Aye. I suppose I was grieving, or sulking maybe. But I took much better care, didn't I, boy?" The mabari barked happily.

"Well, he's a member of the team, now."

"Team?"

"Yes, team. And he deserves a name. I can't just go 'you there, dog fellow' forever, can I?"

She laughed. "Very well. What shall we call him?" Her green eyes were bright, and he found himself unable to resist her smile. _Damn_. _This better be good, Alistair_.

"Well, he is a dog, and he is a Grey Warden... I think we should call him Barkspawn."

"That is the most ridiculous name I've ever heard. I love it. How about it then, Barkspawn?" The dog howled. "You like it then?" He collapsed in the dust, playing dead. "Oh, you are so dramatic!"

She was walking close beside him, close enough for their shoulders to brush, if his shoulders hadn't been covered in metal. His hands fidgeted, fingers flexing. "Lissa..." _Would it be stupid if I reached out and took her hand? Yes, yes it would. I could say that I'm afraid of the dark. Ugh. My brain isn't working._ "We should stop and make camp. It's getting too hard to see." They had not discussed their particular nighttime arrangement, as it were, but the nights were much less cold with them lying together.

She shook her head. "I couldn't bear trying to sleep this hungry. It would make the nightmares that much worse."

Nightmares. Alistair was all too familiar with them, even before Ostagar. "I should tell you-"

"We have found the place we were seeking," Morrigan interrupted, POOFing back into human form.

Elissa squinted. "Lothering?"

"Do you see the smoke? Beyond that cottage 'tis the Imperial Highway. This will lead you into town."

"Chimney smoke means people," Alistair frowned. "All the farmholds we've passed have been abandoned or destroyed. Do they not know they are in danger? Why are they still here?"

"Cheer up, maybe they're bandits," said the girl.

Morrigan disagreed. "Not here. That is not the home of a simple farmer."

"Then who?"

"Useful sorts."

It was a cosy place to the eye, a house on a hill with warm yellow light in the windows. Laundry flapped on a clothes line between a tree and a well. As they drew closer, he could make out a large garden, fenced to keep out rabbits. It was almost... too inviting. Something wasn't right. Alistair began to feel sick, anxious, and wondered if the whole of the darkspawn horde was nearby.

"Stop!" he yelled, snatching Elissa by the hand. "We can't go there!" He tried to pull her back.

She wrenched free. "Alistair! What in the Maker's name is the matter?" He lunged, wrapping his arms around her waist, and this time successfully lifting her back several feet. Desperation filled his senses, and he began to sweat profusely. Elissa kicked at him. "Morrigan, what the hell? What's wrong with him?"

The witch laughed, watching the scene. "I did not know Malcolm was so clever by half. I am sorry to have underestimated him so."

"What?" she panted. "Alistair, stop it, Maker's beard, let go of meee!" This was a bad place. He had to protect her from the bad place. There were ogres and sloth demons and archdemons in that house.

"This is the home of apostate mages. T'would seem that they have warded against templars. A curse of fear. T'is interesting that his instinct to save you overrides his need to flee."

"Well- ach- how do we stop it?"

_"We..._ cannot. I will have to speak to a resident mage, to lift it. T'is so amusing, though."

"Laugh later. Help now!" Accepting the responsibility while trembling with laughter, the witch went to knock at the door.

"Apostates!" growled Alistair, holding her as tight as a vice. "Morrigan's tricked us, she wants us flayed alive by abominations." He had never been so sure of anything in his life. "This is for your own good." If only he had completed his Templar training! He knew the magical rites to disarm a mage, but without lyrium he lacked the potency to take on a whole cabal of blood mages by himself.

"You've been cursed," said the struggling woman in his arms. "You're not yourself. Please, you're going to crush m-me!"

The ogre? Where was the ogre? It was so dark. No, the ogre was dead? She had been crushed by the ogre and she was dead? Alistair kept backing up, disoriented.

"_Elissa, what's happening? You looked out."_

"_You shouldn't have to... I'm sorry."_

"_What's happening. Tell me!"_

"_The darkspawn have the field. I couldn't see what happened. We are surrounded now, by the bulk of the horde. There's no chance of escape for us."_

A voice cried out: "Templar. I release you!" The chains of fear fell from his heart, and his head began to throb.

"Oh, holy hell!" he hissed. His arms went slack. "What in Andraste's ashes just happened?"

Elissa dropped to the grass. "You tried to kill me," she accused, heaving for breath.

"Sorry!" A young woman rushed to join them. "I am so sorry. I couldn't remember the words!" She was handsome, though barely to the age of maturity by her looks. She had a round, full face and a pleasingly plump shape, and glossy black hair. In her hands was a well tended staff, possibly antique. "Father designed the spell so that a group of templars would turn on each other," she explained. "Though I'd never seen it in action until today."

"I'm not a templar any more," sighed Alistair. "Your spell should be more particular."

He tried to assist Lissa up, but she rejected him. "I can help myself, thanks." She scrambled to her feet. Or, was she scrambling away from him? _Great, now she hates me. Properly hates me. Fucking mages._

* * *

><p>one line © BiowareEA and quoted, no ownership implied


	4. Hawks

The plump girl fluttered her hands, as though she wanted to help but didn't know how. Their dog set to sniffing about her shoes, interested in new scents. "I am sorry. We don't get many visitors like you here. Ser Bryant's people do not leave the village proper."

The wind changed, blowing sweet wood smoke in their direction. From the cottage, another woman approached, with Morrigan now beside her. She was equal parts severe and striking, and though she was gray-haired now, she must have been a great beauty in her day. Truly, both strangers dressed more elegantly than any freeholder woman Alistair had met. Elissa rolled her shoulders, straightening to adopt a noblewoman's posture: back arched, breasts high, hands poised. Was it an unconscious habit, or a deliberate choice? "Are you the mages of this house?" She smoothed her hair back behind her ears.

"Just me, actually. My father passed on three years ago."

"I am Lady Elissa Cousland of Highever," said she. There was a touch of something in her voice, kindness, sympathy, but authority. _She's angry_, he realized. _At me? Or at them?_ He had only known her for a handful of days, but cool fury was new. In the most miserable of conditions she flickered manic between cheerfulness and grief, but never this.

"My lady." The girl executed a perfect curtsey.

"The man you snagged in your net is Ser Alistair." She indicated with a careless gesture.

Alistair waggled his fingers sheepishly. "Hullo. It's just Alistair. Not a templar any more, promise."

"And you must know our Morrigan."

"Indeed!" beamed the girl. "Any friend of Morrigan is a friend of ours. I am Bethany Hawke. And this is my mother, Lady Leandra of House Amell."

"Bethany!" the older woman scolded.

"They aren't here to hurt us, Mother," said Bethany. "Morrigan will vouch for that."

"Will I?" said Morrigan dryly.

Elissa gave pause, lips moving silently as she worked something out. "Amell. I have heard that before. That's not Fereldan... Oh! You're from the Free Marches! I have a friend there. He's very interested in heraldry, draws me pictures in all his letters. Let's see... he's better at this than I... but I think it was falcons combattant on a sable field." She revealed a small smile, but it did not meet her eyes. "Or are they hawks?"

"Very good, very good indeed!" Leandra approved. "I'm from Kirkwall. Many Fereldans, especially nobles, came to the free cities during your rebellion against the Orlesian Empire."

Alistair said, "But you did the opposite. Because your husband was a mage?"

"So he was. Come inside and get warm. We were just about to have supper; if you're not too hungry, there should be enough for all of us," Bethany invited.

Leandra sniffed, lips curling as she caught their earthy smell. "Perhaps a bath? Leave your pet outside."

The women took their turns first, of course. Fereldan custom dictated that girls and women had the water first, when it was cleanest, though he was under the impression that they would each have the luxury of fresh water, tonight. No one had asked him to fetch any, either, which was twice a luxury.

Much as he was itching for a wash, Alistair was used to waiting his turn. In the monastery, the youngest boys had to fetch and carry for their senior brothers, to build strength and humility, just as the oldest waited hand and foot on the priests, to learn chivalry and obedience to the female leaders of the Chantry. Fully commissioned Templars knew that they served all. Those who struggled to conform, who were prideful or willful or lustful, who were sympathetic to apostates, who were misogynistic, or Maker forbid _sadistic_, were beaten down and remade into Andraste's holy warriors.

A Templar could not be weak. He could not be susceptible to bribery, or temptation, or any vice which might allow him to drop his guard. As Alistair had been told over and over, they were the soldiers standing between the demons and the weak mages of the Circle. They were necessary to the safety of Thedas. He didn't necessary agree with anything the Chantry had to say about anything. If he did, he wouldn't have agreed to enter the unsecured dwelling of a family of apostates. The Revered Mother had not been able to touch him, physically, not with the protection of his bloodline, and a million dirty dishes weren't enough to win him to her side. He eagerly gave in to his temptations: warmth, and food, and the possibility of sleep. Warmth was enough at first, but the cold had been a hidden blessing, masking the severity of his body aches. Or perhaps the cold had caused the ache. _Chicken and the egg._

He took in the overall effect of the home while Elissa bathed in privacy, behind a screen in a small antechamber. There were two bedrooms and an open hearth-facing loft above, which had been converted into a third sleeping place. In the kitchen, which was the heart of the home, a fire burned in the generous hearth. An enormous oak table was crammed into the space, gleaming from a fresh oiling. In a nook away from the door, there appeared to be some kind of alchemical laboratory. He recognized only some of the implements for potion making: a magicked flame; a stone pestle; a series of fragile vials; a basket full of plants, pulled up roots and all. He recognized deathroot, but none of the others. Wasn't an expert in plants, really. In the dark, he had assumed that the garden was for vegetables, but he might have been wrong.

The young mage, Bethany, was a powerful elementalist, as it turned out. Alistair had not met a mage in the Circle half as naturally gifted. She could conjure water as easily as fire; there was a large brass tub just perfect for a soak. Now, this was the kind of useful magic which Alistair could support. No flying off as a stupid little bird. Just fresh, steaming water. And clean towels. And soap that smelled neither of lye nor lard.

_I would happily fight darkspawn until my Calling-day if I had a bath like this. Deep Roads? Pah. Get a fat little wife in the mountains, warm house to come home to at week's end... I like dwarves. A few days in the dark, a few days feasting on the surface. Chicken in the pot. No worries about having any children. Unless she got lonely and took up with a neighbor. Would I raise a bastard? What am I saying, of course I would... _His head slid back until his chin broke the surface tension of the water.

_Smells like lavender. How do you get lavender oils in the South Reach? Maybe she makes them herself. Leandra, she looks like she farts flowers. Huh. Water's getting cold. I think I dozed off. _He stood up, and the water poured down off his shoulders and chest. _I've gone all wrinkly, eugh. How long have I been in here? _

Vaguely, he could hear the sound of female voices in another room. He toweled off, making note of some interesting bruises on his calves. His chest was smooth, no marks, not a single indication that he had been fatally injured. _That Flemeth, she's scary, but she does good work! You'd think that Lis would have a big fat puckered scar, right in the throat, but nothing's there. Hey, where are my clothes?_ _Sneak-thief mages!_ He cast about the tiny room. These were not his clothes! Sure, they belonged to some man, but not him. Unfamiliar: soft brown trousers and a woolen shirt. _Well, I can't go naked._

"Whose are these?" he asked as he joined the party at table. He finger-combed his damp hair. "They're very good! I mean, I didn't expect them to fit so well. We must be the same size."

"Those belong to my twin brother," explained Bethany. "Mother made me boil yours." She pointed to the roiling cauldron on the fire.

Leandra turned her nose up. "You are soldiers, and soldiers bring lice."

Alistair chuckled. "Point taken." _Flower farts. For an apostate's mother, living in hiding, she sure is sure of herself. I guess you'd have to be, to agree to this life._

"Here. You should eat." Bethany passed him a wooden bowl full of some kind of Fereldan stew, with a spoon in it. Heedless of its temperature, he took a large bite of the stuff: brown, mushy, unidentifiable meat and veg, and salted to death. Neither woman was much of a cook, apparently, but this suited him just fine.

"Delicious," he sighed.

"Your friends were telling us that it's been some days since you've had a full meal or a peaceful night's rest. Please eat as much as you'd like. We have bread and cheese, and dried fruit, when that is gone."

Alistair's stomach rumbled loud enough to be heard by all. "Really, we couldn't impose further," he muttered around a mouthful of food.

Leandra folded her hands in her lap. "Nonsense. You would do the same for a stranger in need. We can afford to be generous. We have fed many who flee from the south."

"I didn't meant to suggest..." He pursed his lips, stumped. _Anything I say, they're going to hate me for, because I was a templar_.

"You think of apostates, and you think of blood mages," suggested Bethany quietly. "Or witches, dancing under the full moon. But we are just normal people, trying to live normal lives. Look at Morrigan, look at me. We are part of families who love us. We've never been part of a Circle, but we're not abominations."

_Well, you, maybe. Can't really vouch for Morrigan, now can you?_

Elissa sat between Bethany and Morrigan. Her wet hair had been brushed smooth, and shone like new copper coins. She was wearing someone's old nightdress, which hung wraith-like off her slender wrists. He tried to catch her eye, but she would not look up from her mug of hot cider. It was difficult to tell if she was listening, or off in her head.

Morrigan appeared as poised as ever, as though not a feather had been ruffled. In fact, she appeared to be enjoying herself. Alistair would have called her among friends, if he thought she was capable of having such a relationship. She wore a borrowed dress of pale green, old and well mended, which bore enchantment. It was likely it had belonged to Bethany before the shapeliness of her adult body made it too small. Not that he was considering Bethany's shapeliness. Especially not the round curve of her backside. _Ahem. _The color made Morrigan seem more venomous than usual. Which posed a question: "How did your family come to know Morrigan, Lady Leandra?"

"Please. Despite what Bethany told you, I haven't been a member of House Amell since the night I ran away with Malcolm."

"We conduct mutually beneficial arrangements," interjected their mage companion. "Malcolm Hawke died when Beth was in a vulnerable, nay, _volatile_ age. I was only a few years older, but my magic is less explosive."

Bethany explained, "I was fifteen. Mother would have had to send me to the Circle. Morrigan was the only other apostate we knew."

"Why not send her to First Enchanter Irving? He's a kind and reasonable man, he would have understood."

"Malcolm never wanted that! He never wanted that life for any of his children!" Leandra insisted passionately. Her fists clenched and released. Bethany hung her head. "Sometimes he saw it as a curse. But he wanted his daughter to be free. My cousin, Revka, has a child in three different Chantry Circles. They will not allow them to be together. The last time it was safe for her to write to me, she told me that her dear little Solona was taken to Irving. What sort of life is that, to never know your family? I asked Morrigan for assistance."

"It's hard at first, when they take you, but it gets easier. It might have been better." _It would have been better_, thought Alistair. _She_ _would be safer in the Circle. I would never let a child around Morrigan. She'd probably eat it._

"I was scared, then, still a child. Mother may not agree, but I think differently now." Beth lifted her head, and stared Alistair in the face. There was a sweet fire that barely scratched the surface of what she was capable of. He found himself intrigued, and tracked her as she rose from table. "However, my siblings would never let us be parted, and I love them."

"I cannot see why anyone would let her go. T'would have been a waste of her potential not to help. She has harmed none, and done good for many. And we have continued to trade." Morrigan continued, "Madame Hawke is the poison-maker in Lothering."

His stew caught in his throat; he choked. "Guh. Ow." _She did that on purpose!_

"Now, Morrigan, when you say it like that, you suggest that I might do some harm to my guests," Leandra smiled peacefully.

"T'would never suggest. Just recently I was telling the Wardens of your particular talents."

"Wardens?" interrupted Bethany. Elissa glanced up. "You mean, you were in the battle?"

"We were," Alistair agreed. "Why?" There was suddenly tension in the air, caution. The sort of feeling at the base of his spine that had him wanting for a weapon.

"My other two children went with the South Reach regiments to fight for King Cailan." Something shadowed Leandra's face. She spoke quickly. "Marion and Carver Hawke. Do you know of them? Black hair?"

"They look like me."

"Carver is a warrior, about your build- those are his clothes. He's very serious for a boy his age. He wanted to make a name for himself, to make a career in the army. I knew I should never have allowed them to go."

"Our sister Marion went to protect him. She is like you, my lady, a rogue. Stronger looking, and maybe taller..." Bethany sized Elissa up. "Not that you do not seem fully capable of your duties."

"She's got a sharp tongue, our Marion, but she's more clever than any of us. Just like her father. You couldn't miss her."

Morrigan appeared genuinely troubled. "I did not think of them going."

"Arl Bryland has not returned, and many think him dead. His family has fled for Denerim."

"There's been no word on the survivors, only stories of massive casualties."

"Leonas was at White River with Rendon Howe and my father," said Elissa. Her voice was so quiet, Alistair had to strain to hear her. "Where the rebel army was slaughtered. He would never speak of it. All dead..."

Alistair knew little of the story himself. There had been but fifty survivors, and all were said to have come from it changed men. Some crueler, some more cowardly, but some braver than before. Battle fatigue, Eamon said, from the horrors they had seen. _And that was men fighting men._

"What she means," he explained, "is that it was bad. Really bad. The king is dead. But, I'm sorry, I don't know about South Reach."

Leandra's hand fluttered to her throat. "Bethany has been to the village ever day, looking for news. Everyone is. Lothering is swamped with refugees- more people than information. We heard of Cailan's passing. The Teryn of Gwaren has been made the new regent."

_No._ "I'm sorry, I must have misheard just now. Did you say- He's _what_?"

"Evidently word has not leaked out about your teryn at the battle," Morrigan said. But even she looked disturbed.

"What need has Queen Anora of a regent?" Lissa asked her cup. "Everyone knows she's ruled fine without Cailan's involvement these five years."

This cut the wound deeper. How could she say such a thing, about his own dead brother? "You'll mind your tongue when you speak of your king." His words, his voice, sounded strange even to _his_ ears.

"He's dead, Alistair, he isn't to know. More will say worse."

"But not us. Not!" He slammed his fist on the table. The dishes rattled. "Not when his murderer takes his throne."

Leandra recoiled. "Murderer? Teryn Mac Tir?"

Hate was an ugly beast in his stomach. "King Maric gave him that name, when he was a hero. He doesn't deserve it now."

"Sit down, Alistair!" Elissa barked. He hadn't even realized he'd been standing. He met her eyes in challenge, wanting a fight. Fighting was simple, it meant he didn't have to think. Didn't have to think about Duncan. Didn't have to think about Cailan. But she did not blink, green pools, still waters. Then, gently, softer, "You're infringing on the generous hospitality of our hosts."

He exhaled- collapsed onto the bench. Head in hands. _What's wrong with me?_ "Sorry."

"As you can see, it has been a terribly trying experience for all of us," Elissa said smoothly. "We're burning candlelight. Would it be possible to take you up on your offer of a night's rest?"

Graciously, Leandra still offered them her home. "Surely. We can talk again in the morning, with cooler heads. Bethany will sleep with me. Morrigan and yourself can have the girls' bed, and Alistair may take the loft."

Elissa stood to gather her things. "It might be better if we let Morrigan have a bed to herself."

Bethany, pulling laundry from the pot, looked confused. "But-" She connected some impossible dots. "Oh of course, you'll have your place with your husband."

_Andraste's feet_. Alistair spoke through his teeth. "Yes. Husssband. That's me. I'm her husband." He followed the red-headed woman.

Morrigan laughed. "Tis such a _loving_ couple."

The loft belonged to the absent boy- Carver. He was like a ghost, following Alistair around the Hawke residence, as though daring him to behave as a templar should. It was an uncomfortable notion, that even indoors, there were eyes in the dark. The space contained a simple bed- straw-stuffed mattress and rope lattice support- that was just big enough for two. There was no indication of taste, of personality, of belief. In some ways it was very much like a soldier's garrison, although even in the monastery dormitory, there were personal items beside each bed and in every trunk. The lack of privacy was the same. Alistair could not begin to make sense of the enigma of the Hawkes. Not without sleep. Tonight, he could sleep even through Barkspawn's sad baying outside.

"Listen. I know, I know, sin of omission, but I'm still not comfortable lying to the people giving us shelter," he said quietly to Elissa as she clamored onto the bed. He stood at the rail, watching Bethany spell their clothing dry. It was efficient. Why ever bother with the drying line outdoors? Perhaps it was the smell the magic produced, like the air after lightning. It made the little hairs on your neck stand up.

"You're the one who lied. I just didn't correct her." She yawned. Her eyes were rimmed with red. He imagined he looked similar. "If you can believe, the bed in the girls' room is even smaller. Must be very intimate, Marion and Bethany."

"What an insinuation," he clucked, shaking his head. "They must have been frantic with worry for weeks. So little news, and all of it terrible. You know, if you didn't want to spoon the witch, you could have made her be a cat again."

"_You_ go bunk with her, then. Stop fobbing her off on me. And tell her you're going to 'make' her. I'd like to see that." Lissa rolled onto her side, tucking her knees to her chest. "Or sleep on the floor."

_Difficult woman._ "For the Maker's sake, at least get under the covers."

"No. Don't feel like it."

In one impatient move, he yanked the blanket roughly out from under her. She squeaked when he dislodged her, surprised. She looked even more surprised when he tucked her in. "Are you going to let me in to your bed, Missus Alistair?" he asked, leaning down, hands pressing the bed on either side of her shoulders. He was pinning her with the blanket, though he did not consider this. "I am so tired."

"Never going to happen in a thousand years."

"What?" he recoiled, disappointed. Maker, he wasn't sure if the floor was better than Morrigan, or worse.

"Never going to be anybody's 'missus'. Least of all, yours!" But she grinned. "I'm against coverture. I want to die a Cousland."

"Huh? What are you-" He decided he didn't care. "I only understand about half the things you say. Budge over." She rolled, and he took the spot her body had warmed. It felt disturbingly nice. That is, to lie on something soft. He was used to camping, and marching, and yes, sleeping on the ground, but there had always been enough other people to have a proper watch. He had never needed to sleep in armor before Ostagar.

"No funny stuff." She squirmed to get comfortable.

"Hm?" He was half-asleep already.

"It won't be cold, tonight..." she muttered. "I don't want you to... We won't need to do the things we do, when we have to. You know?"

A knot formed in his stomach. "Got it. Sword in the bed."

"Huh?"

Lightly, trying to disguise his sore feelings, he asked, "You've never heard that saying?"

"I don't know. I don't even remember my mother's name right now," she admitted. But she gave him her attention. "Tell me the story. It'll help me fall asleep."

He could see her bare shoulders, the rise and fall of her breasts with each breath. It was just too much to watch her, without armor shielding them, in a real bed. He had finally taken a woman to bed. Just not in the conventional sense. Not that his cock was giving up hope. He was getting hard just by proximity. Was she bare, under the nightdress? It was quite a bit of material. Were her smallclothes downstairs?

"Okay," he whispered, then turned and blew out the candle. Maybe if he couldn't see, he wouldn't think. Lust was driving him to distraction. Surrounded by beautiful women- Morrigan, Bethany, Elissa- and not a moment to himself for a private release. Even Leandra crossed his mind. He refused to touch his complaining erection; to do so here, without Elissa's permission, would be an unforgivable violation. _Later_, he promised himself. He tried to think of less enticing things, like genlocks and giant spiders. Genlocks and giant spiders, touching each other sensuously. Ah. Disgusting, but better.

"Well?"

"In certain politically-motivated marriages, ones I'm sure you've heard of, the woman is decidedly less keen on being a bride to her new husband. Maybe she finds him repulsive, maybe she has a lover with whom she desires to be faithful. Maybe she prefers the company of other women. But the man respects his bride, even if they do not love each other. He metaphorically, or maybe physically, depending on who is telling it, puts a sword in the bed. Meaning that he will not touch her in their marriage bed unless she allows him."

"I wish someone had told this story to my mother, when she suggested marrying me off to that squire, Dairren."

Alistair scoffed. "What is it with you and squires? You're distracting me."

"Don't I always?"

"Yes." He squeezed his eyes shut. "If you don't want me to tell the story, I'll just go to sleep."

"No," she put her hand on his chest. He shivered, stomach pulsing. "No, tell me?"

"The old legend goes that there were two brothers, who were identical twins, and had a special talent, so they could talk to their mabari hounds, and understand what they were saying. They were hunters, rogues like you."

"Are you making this up?"

"No. Of course not! No more interruptions, Lis, or I swear I won't ever tell you the rest."

"Deal." She put her head on his chest. So that she could hear better? Her closeness was a debilitating menace.

"Um... Let me see. Uh. Well. The two brothers went their separate ways in the world. One brother stayed in the woods and became the best archer in the Brecilian Forest, better than any elf. The other brother came to Highever and discovered that a terrible high dragon had taken the Teryn's daughter to be his slave, and that any one who tried to rescue her died in gruesome ways."

"Hmph. The teryn's daughter can rescue herself."

"Well, she doesn't have any weapons in this story. And she's _not_ you, Lis, I swear my nan told it to me just like this."

"Let me guess? The other brother went and saved her."

"Almost." Alistair chuckled. "Actually, he tried to fight the dragon all by himself, but since he was a lightly armored rogue, it ripped his head right off."

"Ooof. I bet that hurt."

"It did. And it was bloody. But his talking mabari was very smart, and he went and fetched a magic herb, which brought his master back to life."

"It put his head back on?"

"Yup."

"Good herb!"

"Really, the best herb. So the dog helped his master finish off the high dragon, and they saved the Teryn's daughter. The lady was very grateful, and married him for being the only person who could complete this impossible task. And when the old teryn of Highever died, she became the Teryna and her husband became the Teryn-Consort... You still awake?"

"Mmm."

"Then one day, the Teryn was traveling on business through the Forest, and he met a witch. She was evil, like all witches, but she tricked him by pretending to be nice. Then, she turned him and his dog into statues. A little while later, the Hunter brother came to Highever, because he heard a story about a dragon. He was so surprised when the townsfolk treated him like the missing Teryn, because he didn't know of his twin brother's new position. They paraded him to the castle, and the Teryna was so happy to see him that she dragged him off to bed."

"But that's..."

"Exactly. When the Hunter discovered that his brother, the real teryn was missing, he traced his route. He knew that Forest better than the elves did, and so he found the witch. But he wasn't taken in by the witch's lies, and he killed her with an arrow before she could cast a single spell. The spell broke, and he rescued his twin brother and the dog. But when the brothers got back to Highever, the Teryn learned that his brother had slept with the Teryna, and he him executed in secret. Cut his head off."

"Is that it?"

"Hold on, almost. The Teryna never knew that she had taken the wrong man to bed. She didn't know about the twins at all. So she asked him, why one night he had refused to be intimate with her. He scared her, she said, by putting a sword between them in the bed."

"Oh! I get it now."

"The Teryn was very upset, because his brother hadn't raped his wife after all, and he'd rescued him from the witch, too. But the mabari knew what to do; he went and got that special herb, and brought the hunter back to life."

"And put his head back on?"

"Of course. There are no undead in my stories."

"It would be more interesting with undead heroes."

"It wouldn't be as romantic."

"I bet necromancers are either really romantic or really crazy. You ever meet one?"

"No. Have you?"

"Uh uh. Probably never will. They're exceedingly rare anymore. Any apostate who did that kind of magic would get all kinds of attention from the Chantry."

"Yeah. We've got enough problems with legions of tainted creatures without adding legions of undead to the mix."

"Maybe they'd fight each other for us," she said sleepily.

He tucked an arm around her. "Hey, Lissa?" The way she was arranged, with her head tucked against his chest, she could probably hear his heart beating. He willed himself calm.

"Hey, Alistair."

He chewed his lip. "Did I hurt you?"

She shrugged. It felt like a wiggling movement against him in the near pitch dark. Her voice came out very small and very weary. "I was actually more angry with Morrigan than I ever was with you. She purposefully lead us to a place where she knew there might be traps. She let you get cursed, and did nothing to stop it."

"I totally lost control. It's like I was reliving the Tower of Ishal, but this time, I was the ogre."

"Alistair, we... we died," she said bluntly. "That's really hard to deal with. I can't think about it yet. I haven't even figured out how to keep food in my mouth with the Blight marching up on our asses. I've never done any of this before; I didn't even want to _be _a Grey Warden. We're supposed to be these important heroes, but we're refugees! So I get it. If I had some curse that made me crazy-afraid lobbed at me, I'd probably start stabbing people with that stupid little knife that I'm passing off as a dagger." She sighed. "I don't have a savior complex to fall back on. That seems like a prerequisite for the job."

"Wow. You're right." He felt cold.

"Alistair..."

"Do you have any faith in us at all? Are we just going to die?" He swallowed. "Again?"

"I have faith in..." She was silent for a long moment. "I have faith in things seeming better in the morning."


	5. Creature Comforts

The small window in the loft of the cottage faced west, and so only a little light shone through. The sandy haired man woke peacefully, but was nearly impossible to judge what time it might be. Even in the daytime, the kitchen below was dim and shadowed; the shutters were closed up tight. Alistair felt momentarily disoriented. He had been dreaming of his friends in the Grey, of getting roaring drunk in front of a hot fire and listening them chant a bawdy song about an dwarven whore. _"Give 'er copper, give 'er gold, she won't do as she is told, but you'll liiiiiiike it!"_

_Where-? This isn't the Denerim Compound,_ he thought as he scrubbed the crust from his eyes. _Too quiet. _They never did have the good sense to let a man have his beauty rest- always stomping around before the dawn. He felt the touch of nostalgia, of loneliness, missing his dead comrades. But each day pain was a little lessened. Sorrow, the wrenching sickness that plagued each sleep and each waking, was weakening.

They say that time is the only healer. But time was not something they had in luxury. Today, he would have to rely on the gift of distraction, and sweet distraction came in the form of his bed-mate. Elissa Cousland was sprawled on her stomach, arms stretched out and buried under the pillow, face resting on the sheet. Her breathing was soft and deep, her mouth slack with sleep. She was drooling slightly, he realized with a grin. Alistair whispered, "A good look for you, Lis. No wonder the Maker gave you a noble birth. That's a face that belongs sleeping in a big goosefeather bed, tuckered out from, hm, let's see... riding to hunt and eating rich foods? What _do_ you nobles do all day?"

He sat up beside her, enjoying the scene. Looking at her, a different kind of funny feeling sprang up in his belly. Hot and tingly. "Listen, if Fereldan topples to the Blight, how about you and I go to Montsimmard, or someplace. I can become a gardener for some toity bastard duke and you will be the captain of his guard. A feather bed for each of us? No?" Her thick eyelashes fluttered, but she did not rouse at the sound of his voice. "What's that you say? You _like_ Fereldan?" He leaned down, close to her exposed ear. "Then I guess we'd better get up and save it."

"You talk too much, Warden," she grumbled, without moving or opening her eyes. "Five more minutes."

He vaulted off his side of the bed, bare feet striking cold wood planks; the shock was bright in his nerves. "Ah! Not a chance. I'll give you three, at most," he answered, hopping around, looking for his socks. Someone had brought them their clothes while they slept, and left them folded on the chair. "No. Do you know what I think? I think you'll get lazy," Alistair said decisively, pulling the covers back. She moaned. Her borrowed nightdress had rode up in the night, revealing the creamy skin on the backs of her thighs, the downy pale hairs on her firm legs... "Guh," he said. _Maker help me_. _I think I might be in trouble._

"What did you say?"

He licked his lips. _Scratch that, I __**know **__I'm in trouble. _"I was saying that, um- one night in a bed again and you'll be wondering where your servants are. But I won't fetch your slippers!"

She rolled over, blearily looking to him. "Are you always this delirious in the morning?"

He abandoned this tableau, ducking behind the screen to change back into his things. Just has he was sliding his underthings over his morning wood, Alistair came to the unfortunate realization that the pretty Bethany had seen them. "I can wash my own clothes!" he blurted, turning red. _Shit_. _Shitshittyshit._

"So that's a yes?" He heard her stand.

"I can do it myself," he continued on, lamely. _I have no control over my mouth. Things just come out._ He yanked his shirt over his head.

"Never said you couldn't," she answered, confused but decidedly amused. "I'm sure they taught you all about it in Templar school. Though I heard you had lice." She poured water from the heavy clay pitcher into the basin, and reached for a washing cloth.

"Allegedly!" Alistair protested, coming around the screen. "Just because a few- okay, to be fair, many soldiers get it during campaign- no one can prove that I was one of them!"

"I'm assured that the Grey Wardens were a very clean lot. Duncan surely made you wash the blood from behind your ears, and such." She playfully swatted at him with the drenched cloth, when he came too close. "Did he inspect your fingernails, too? Shall I?"

"Hey, I was thoroughly wetted last night, thank you, I don't need to relive the experience!" He rubbed at his splashed face, retreating back. The bristle of his unshaven cheeks scratched his fingertips.

"Ah yes, your annual bath. Wouldn't want you to catch a demon from smelling too nice!"

"Maleficars do like their perfumes, their colognes, their spiced wine, that sort of thing- oh! Stop brandishing that weapon or I will be forced to disarm you!" She advanced on him, holding out the washing cloth as though it were a grenadier's device. "Stop, stop, you're getting my shirt all wet!"

"Take it like a man," Elissa smirked, dodging his swipes. She was nimble, a feline on a wall, quicker than he gave her credit. Her eyes were laughing all the while. _If this is a dance, I don't know the steps. _The blue satin ribbons which tied the neck of her gown had come undone, but the cut was extremely modest and showed only a sliver of flesh. The light fabric draped down over the apples of her breasts, long lines like that of a marble statue. Alistair knew men weren't supposed to see women who weren't their wives dressed like this. It was a virgin's shroud, an intimate thing, hiding and hinting to what was underneath. Briefly, he fantasized that the peaks of her breasts would be the pink of her mouth- like the rest of her- and then he hated himself for it.

"Okay, I submit," he croaked, when she got too close. His face felt flushed and hot. "Save the battering for the hurlocks, huh? Maker's breath, it's like you've forgotten there's a war on!"

Green eyes flashed hurt. "I'm sorry." She backed up.

"Lissa..."

"No, I'm sorry, I get it. Not behavior as becoming to two Grey Wardens. You're right." Elissa crossed the room, putting the bed between them.

_Stupid, stupid thing to say, Alistair. You're really sooooo charming. Lusting after every woman you lay eyes on, then insulting them for being nice,_ he berated himself. _I told her I wasn't a lech; I've made a real fool of myself! _"I didn't mean it." But distracted as he was, it sounded insincere, even to him.

Her lips twisted. He read disgust there, in the lines on her mouth. "Go find Morrigan, tell her we're leaving. I need to dress."

"I need help with my armor."

She turned away. "Ask someone else."

"But I-"

"Go! Leave! Or figure it out yourself!"

Sour, and ashamed, he climbed down the ladder and went outside. The sky was cloudy, gray and dim, and in the light of day the house seemed less like a haven and more like a hovel. He scanned around out of habit while he struggled with assembling his armor. The grasses grew tall in the large field between the cottage and the Imperial Highway, a rather flimsy shield to official eyes. In fact, from this observation, he wondered how the Hawkes had never been discovered. It wasn't as though the villagers had never met them...

The Witch of the Wilds and her apostate apprentice were deep into conversation, sitting on the rim of the well. They had just finished a meal. The former was wearing the same green silk robes from the night previous, but it was evident that she had kept industrious while they slept: she had made some cuts to the shoulders and neckline, for what fashion he could not understand, and sown on some of her strange baubles. To this end, it suggested she was daring them to comment on her clothes again.

"Look who has finally decided to wake," said Morrigan, seeing him first. "Did you and your 'lady wife' rest well?"

He ignored her. He had only one thing on his mind. "Bethany, last night, you lied."

"What ever can you mean?" Her face suggested many emotions, but they flickered faster than he could decipher. He had thought her a sweet girl, a rare innocent mage, but he had been wrong! He knew better; he had been taught better.

"You said that Bryant's templars never leave town. But that's a lie! I know- everyone knows that Lothering is the Templar staging ground for operations into the barbarian south. Quite frequently there are mages who think they can escape if they reach the Chasind folk, and the Templars from Lothering are sent out to hunt them down through the Hinterlands." He looked from one woman to the other, before adding, "Others take missions to tangle with the hedge witches, though I suspect that none return from that fatal endeavor."

"I don't... I don't understand."

"How droll," said Morrigan, "tis a remarkable thing, watching an idiot compose an argument. If you will make an accusation, Alistair, then make one."

"Shut up, Morrigan. This house is right in the path of the Templars! Believe me, I know, they're nothing if they're not tenacious bastards. Bryant is a just man, more interested in assisting the Chantry than in rooting out mages, but he still takes his orders from on high, and Knight-Commander Greagoir still shuttles the fanatics who can't play nice in Kinloch Hold down to Lothering. My point is, how have they not taken you?"

"You would slight the very ones who offered you food and shelter? Truly, now I know you _are_ the most ungrateful man in Fereldan." Morrigan placed herself between the Alistair and the girl.

"I demand an answer!"

"Stop now, while you can still save the tattered threads of your dignity."

"No, Morrigan, I would hear this," interrupted Elissa, sternly. In the azure armor of a Grey Warden, she emerged. No one had heard her footsteps. She struck an impressive figure, the blue contrasting with her fire-toned hair and flushed cheeks.

Bethany took a deep breath. "It's the work of my Father's wards. He spent years on the run from the Templars, terrible years, and saw horrible things. He could not even tell us where he was born. They had to keep running, when Marion was just a babe. It was not impossible, with just one child, especially one as clever as my sister. But when twins came, it was much more difficult. When Carver and I were small, they decided we needed a place of permanence."

"Malcolm studied many things, useful things, in his journey. I wish I had taken the time to learn from him, alas," Morrigan's face softened, "I was not used to people. Our meetings were brief, and cautious. He was powerful. In a different life, he might have been a leader in a Circle. But he understood that magic should not be limited by the quivering fears of the mundane."

Bethany disagreed. "He wasn't like that- he just wanted his freedom. He didn't want us hurt. So he laid protections in the foundation of the house. Only those who already know it's here can find it. And templars who come too close turn on each other."

"But that's maleficarum. It's blood magic. To specifically target only templars- well I'm not sure how he managed it, to be honest- but it has to be blood magic." This was wrong, this was all wrong. _I put us in danger because I was so eager for creature comforts. A desire demon could have wiggled her purple fingers under my nose and I wouldn't have even noticed. Well, they say evil comes in the prettiest packages. _"How could I have been so stupid? Of course the witch would lead us straight to a blood mage!" he sneered.

"But I'm not a blood mage," Bethany argued. "He never taught me anything like that. I didn't mean for it to hurt you. How could I have known that my friend would bring a templar to our doorstep?"

"He is not a templar," said Lissa, stepping in, "Though it seems he has forgotten. We have no quarrel with you, Miss Hawke. Indeed, you have shown us nothing but kindness, and we are thankful."

"Thankful? She lied, Elissa! We slept under these so-called 'protections'. Who knows what they've done to us!"

"We took their help, and we would do it over again."

"You would consort with blood mages?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're an Andrastian! You know what a crime it is. They'd send us to the Aeonar, if they didn't save themselves the trouble and execute straight away." _A fancy title won't save you from the mage prison._

"If you mean would I take one for an ally, I- I would." Elissa held her head high. "I am a Grey Warden. Duncan told me that sometimes being a Warden requires unscrupulous means for the greater good."

_She didn't even know him. Spoiled, selfish woman. How sheltered must you be to not understand the dangers of a blood mage? _"Duncan would have never. You don't even want to be a Warden!" he snapped. "Just look at you. How long were you going to carry that armor around in your pack before you tried it on?"

"I didn't want it before. I'm wearing it now. Isn't that enough?" She looked him dead in the eye. Again, the swirling hatred rose up in him, the feeling that he couldn't laugh away. He could feel himself shaking with rage, and this girl was in his path. _I feel like I'm out of control. Like I've come back broken. It's not her that I'm angry with. But she needs to learn, or she's going to lead us all to fates much worse than death._

"You must decide, whether you wish to be a Grey Warden or a Cousland. You cannot be both."

The blow struck, visible on her countenance, and he felt some grim satisfaction in winning. But this was short lived: "It seems to me, the real contradiction is in _you,_ Alistair. Are you Warden or are you Templar?" Morrigan said, sashaying past him. "Your nature cannot manage two, it would seem. Decide quickly, if you want friends or not. See: Madame Hawke returns."

Elissa turned away from him. He felt rooted to the ground. _Is she right? She can't be right. What am I doing?_

"Lady Leandra, good morning. You have been to Lothering?"

The older woman was walking very quickly to them, red-faced from her exertions and slightly sticky looking. It appeared she had made the trip back at double speed. "I have news, but none of it good. You must leave immediately." Her voice was hoarse.

"What? What's happened, Mother?"

"I must drink. Please."

Bethany rushed to her mother's side and lead her to the well. She seated her and brought her water. After a few moments of tending, Leandra was prepared to speak to them. "The new regent has called the bannorn. Our bann has pulled his men out to join the Teryn's army in the east. Lothering is to be abandoned."

"What?!" Alistair exclaimed. "Loghain must take a stand here, in the south, before the Blight-"

"Everyone thinks so," agreed Leandra. "Rumors are flying fast and thick. The horde may be upon us in less than a week."

"Darkspawn? Here?" Bethany turned white as a sheet. "Impossible. But Carver and Marion aren't home yet!"

"There is the chance that they may not return," began Morrigan. "Practically-"

Elissa interceded. "No need to talk like that. I, too, am waiting for a sibling to return from Ostagar. The Hinterlands are thick with darkspawn, but perhaps they have gone toward Gwaren. Maybe my Fergus is with your family even as we speak."

"Of course," agreed Leandra. "We must not give up hope. The Maker will protect our loved ones."

"Were there any survivors in Lothering?" asked Alistair.

"Just rumors." She shook her head. "There are bandits on the king's road. Only the truly desperate have come here, expecting Arl Bryland's protection. I asked my friend Barlin what he knows. He shared a story with me which roughly correlated with what Morrigan told me: the general abandoned the king's men. But what no one can decide on are the details."

"What do you mean?"

"The official telling from Denerim is that the Grey Wardens lead King Cailan into a trap. Loghain saved his men by seeing through the ruse."

Lissa blanched, and stepped back, crossing her arms defensively across her chest. "Who would believe that?"

"Enough to make the story dangerous," said Alistair. "It would be easier to believe that a beloved hero saved his men from danger than to believe he would betray his own son-in-law." He gritted his teeth. "The Wardens have only been allowed back into Fereldan for the past twenty years, and only because we were allies to King Maric during the war. Many still see us as foreigners, and will lose no love."

"Free Marchers know better," said Leandra, "and the Orlesians, I suspect. The other nations will see this lie. Grey Wardens have always been a force of good."

"Not always."

"What now, Morrigan?"

"I have studied the histories. As I recall, the Grey Wardens were banished from Fereldan in what your chantry calls the Storm Age. Their crime t'was meddling in politics."

Alistair explained, "Grey Wardens aren't supposed to do get involved in politics. They must be neutral, a citizen of no land. This way they can freely cross into other countries, and not be seen as an invading force."

"Are you feeling neutral, Alistair?" asked Lissa, cracking a smile. "Is that what you intend to be?"

"I... no," he admitted.

"Then you _don't_ intend on going to Loghain and begging for his military assistance. Good, I was getting worried."

"Fool me once... I cannot allow Loghain's misdeeds to go unpunished. If that makes me a hypocrite, so be it. Maybe we're not very good Grey Wardens, but we are the last." He briefly returned her smile. Something eased in his chest.

"You must know," said Leandra, "that Loghain has outlawed the Wardens once more, for their supposed crimes in the battle. There is a bounty on your heads."

"Wonderful. Just what we needed, more complications."

"I'm surprised he thinks any of us are even alive," mused Elissa. "But it does put us in a predicament. Leandra, we must go. Our best chance is to get through Lothering and on to Redcliffe before the rumors catch up to us."

"I agree. Please, take some food before you go. You will find none in the village- the refugees have ravaged our reserves."

"Will you not come with us? Leandra, you would be safer in Redcliffe, and Bethany, the Chantry cannot touch a Warden mage."

"Me? A Grey Warden?" Bethany laughed. "Could you imagine? No, I'm sure you could use me, but I must stay with Mother."

"And we will stay here," Leandra determined. "I will not leave without all my children."

"But you will be in grave danger!" Elissa persisted. "If you do not leave soon, you will not be able to leave at all."

"My husband's magic will safeguard us until all Hawkes return to the roost. Of this I am sure. You don't know Marion- no Blight could touch her."

"That's just not-"

"Lis." He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "They've made up their minds."

"Foolish," scowled Morrigan. She picked up her staff and walked off, the dog following at her heels. _Not one for goodbyes, is she?_

The red haired Warden nodded. "At least let me pay you for the supplies. Even in a Blight, money is useful." She offered half the coins she had looted off the dead. It was more than generous, but he could see she was troubled.

They left the cottage in the midday sun, heading west on the dusty road to the village of Lothering. Their silhouettes seemed insignificant against the backdrop of the red hills. A spirit of melancholy filled him as he watched the two women waving farewell at a distance. He had accused the girl of a most heinous crime, and now she was probably doomed. What sort of a person did that make him? He had always known himself to be a cheerful and kind sort; but lately, he only saw the faces of the dead.

* * *

><p>Reviews are deeply appreciated.<p> 


	6. Refugees

Under the clouded sky, feet kicking up the orange dust, a small group of outsiders made their way to the next sign of civilization: Lothering. It was a small trading crossroads, born where the Imperial Highway met the West Road, set in the rolling red hills which characterized this side of Lake Calenhad. Geographically, it was nearly the dead center of Ferelden, but most of the money to be scraped from the land was north, in the warmer climates of the region known colloquially as the Bannorn. Alistair had a good memory for maps.

This far south, the holds were small subsistence farms, and the banns were isolated. For sons and daughters born in the tiny hamlets, the life of a soldier was often more appealing than the lonely existence of a freeholder. Something about this place reminded Alistair of home, of Redcliffe. Maybe it was the color of the bloody earth, or the wind whistling in the swells. Maybe it was the stubbornness of the people who remained, generation after generation, to till the clay and raise crops.

During the hour-long walk from the home of the Hawkes to their village, the mabari tore through the fields and shrubs, spooking up hares and grouse. Despite the demurring of his mistress, she never missed a single shot with her bow. They worked in tandem with deadly efficiency, reading each others' signs and responding accordingly. _They're well practiced_, he noted. _She did say he is a hunting dog._

Barkspawn knew better than to eat these kills, but while she removed her arrows and snapped necks, he feasted on the eggs in the nests. Happy, in his element, he licked goo and shell from his snout, trotting along beside them until he spotted more prey. "Why do you take more than we can use?" Morrigan queried, watching Elissa string another limp body onto a length of twine hanging from her pack. "I can freeze the meat with a spell, but t'will not keep long."

"It's for bartering," the other woman replied, "Leandra said there isn't much food left in the village. A fresh rabbit or a wild hen will be worth their weight in copper to the hungry."

"A practical idea," Morrigan approved. "Lend me your knife and I will help you clean them."

Elissa unsheathed her dagger, and when she did, she caught Alistair frowning. "Oh, don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" he asked, caught off guard. He had been silent so far on this trip, lost in thought.

He had traveled this region only once before, in the opposite direction, heading to the fortress of Ostagar. Things had seemed so different then. The Grey Wardens had camped with the army, full of life and good cheer, planning to meet up with Duncan once he returned from his recruiting missions. Every night, a strong drink and a good meal. Every day, a priestess who needed his assistance with some project. It hadn't taken long for Alistair to be sucked back into running errands for the Chantry again. Six months wasn't long to break a habit.

"Like I'm going to commit highway robbery. I'll be fair." She winced comically, drawing his attention. "I'll be fair-_ish_." Elissa shot him a crooked smile. "I felt bad, taking more food from Bethany's family."

"We paid dearly for your antics, Alistair. T'is to be expected. You are far too stupid to control your tongue," sniffed Morrigan. He rolled his eyes but didn't rise to her bait.

"But now that that attack of conscience is over, I am reminded that we need supplies. Tents, bedrolls, bandages, sundries for making various potions and poisons-"

"Poisons?"

"My sister-in-law is Antivan," she replied, as though that explained anything. Her eyes clouded. "Was Antivan. Never mind."

The Imperial Highway still bore the trappings of old Tevinter. Beside them, the crumbling ruins of the aqueducts. Above them, the graceful arches. They were crossing a bridge when they ran into an obstacle. A collection of carts and crates had been used to form a barricade. "Well that looks like a trap," he indicated in a soft voice, hoping that it wouldn't carry across the stone cobbles. "I don't think those carts were abandoned willingly."

"The dead tell that tale," agreed Morrigan.

A rabble of men lounged about before them. They were bronzed from days in the sun, like most laborers of the South Reach, but they had weapons. "They've killed a templar," he said, spotting the body on the ground in front of the barricade. They hadn't even bothered to hide it. "Six against one isn't fair."

"Look Alistair, real highwaymen," Elissa murmured, so that only he could hear. She seemed fairly amused by the coincidence. She passed him by, her dog at her hip and knife in hand. They had been warned of the possibility, but these were the first they had encountered on the road.

"Wake up, gentlemen! More travelers to attend to. I'd guess that woman is the leader," announced a stranger in well-used armor. His skin was as tanned as his leather. Alistair poised himself to reach for his sword, waiting for her move.

"Err... they don't look much like them others, you know. Uh... maybe we should just let these ones pass..." cautioned one of his fellows. By the accent, Alistair placed him as a local.

"Nonsense! Greetings, travelers!" addressed the bandit leader, in a clipped but friendly voice. There was no mistaking the diction of a Denerim native.

"Greetings, yourselves," smiled Elissa. She might have looked like she was batting her eyelashes at a handsome stranger, but he could see the tension in her neck.

Morrigan rapped her stave on the cobblestone road. "They are fools to get in our way. I say teach them a lesson."

"Now is that any way to say hello?" He tsked at the witch, apparently heedless of the danger. "A simple ten silvers and you're free to move on."

"Oh, but we're not refugees," explained Lissa, pushing her tangled red curls away from her face. The corners of her smile were hard. She twisted her blade carelessly in her hands, letting it catch the light. Like a seasoned soldier, she took good care of her weapons. Even a little knife like this one was sharpened to a keen edge. "You should listen to your friend."

"What did I tell you? No wagons, and this one is armed!"

"The toll applies to everyone, Hanric. That's why it's a _toll_ and not, say a refugee tax."

The simple minded one was convinced. "Oh, right. Even if you're no refugee, you still gotta pay."

Elissa shifted her weight to the balls of her feet. Seeing this subtle change was enough of a signal for him. "The thing is..." she said, wrinkling her nose. It was oddly charming, in an 'I'm-going-to-kill-you' sort of way. "We're something of tax collectors ourselves. And you haven't paid." In a blurred movement, she threw her knife. It plunged with an awful noise into the throat of the bandit leader. He collapsed to his knees in shock, gurgling and clawing at his neck as he bled out. _Maker's breath._ _That's one way to do it._

"Why would you do that!" gasped Hanric. "We was bein' reasonable!" The other bandits, alarmed, went for their weapons.

"Eh, you know, I didn't like his haircut," she quipped. Lissa took several steps back, allowing Alistair to step in front of her, shield at the ready. She pulled her bow.

"Sorry about my friend; she really doesn't care for extortion," he chuckled grimly, but wasted no time in smashing in his face.

Morrigan's ice spells and the bash of his shield made short work of it. The fear of facing a mage in battle did half the work for them. These men were not templars; none had probably ever fought magic before. Leather armor would not save you from a glowing-eyed sorceress. It was a horrible, unnatural way to die, shattered into frozen chunks of flesh and bone, but it was a quick end: no time for screaming. Those who turn and ran took an arrow between the shoulder blades. They left no survivors.

"What a mess," he said with disgust as he surveyed their handiwork. "I'm not sure even they deserved to die like this. We could have just scared them off."

"If you did not like it, you could have stood aside," retorted the dark haired woman, clearly not bothered in the slightest. "I merely facilitated your slaughter."

"You scared the piss out of them!"

"Did they deserve to die with dignity? At best, they were a nuisance. How would you prefer I kill them? As a giant spider?"

"Forget I said anything," he grumbled. "Got enough giant spiders in my life as it is." He hovered over the corpse of the dead templar. Grey skin, pale lips. The body was stinking but not bloated yet. Filmy eyes stared lifelessly back at him. "I wonder who this is?"

"Check his pockets," Elissa suggested, scavenging the scene for useful things. She was collecting arrows and coin and salable trinkets. The bandits had stolen much but hadn't found a buyer; it didn't help to rip off merchants.

He hesitated. "I don't want to."

"Don't tell me that still bothers you?" She joined him. "Hm, no pouches. Wait... here." Elissa snapped a chain free. How could she rifle through the things of a dead man and act as though it did not affect her? The smell, the maggots, the flies... Alistair could never get beyond the horror of it. It made sick bubble up in his throat... Not to mention the sacrilegious component.

"What have you found?" he asked, breathing through his mouth.

"A locket. Oh, see, there's something inside it." She unfolded a greasy brown bit of paper and began to read. "_I have been to his home in Denerim and found the trail_... _conspiracy_... _report_... Hm, strange."

"What does it say?"

She shook her head. "I don't really know. It's rambling. But it's meant to go to a Ser Donall in Lothering."

"Huh. I know Donall, he's a knight from Redcliffe. Would he still be here?"

"Don't know- We can ask around at the chantry."

"Excellent. I have always wanted to parade myself in the wolves' den," complained Morrigan. "How might you say it? 'Like a big piece of meat and magic'? Why perform errands for the dead?"

"He was a templar," scolded Elissa. "He deserves to be buried with the rites of his order. Why, this could have been our Alistair!"

Alistair shivered. "Thanks. That's a wonderful vision."

She straightened, and offered him the dead man's treasure. "If you disliked being with the Templars so much, how come you stayed? I'm curious."

"Have you seen the uniform? It's not only stylish, it's well made," he deflected glibly. "I'm a sucker for good tailoring." He turned the locket over in his hands. It seemed familiar, but could not place it. Just a generic medallion of faith: the prophetess Andraste dressed in a cloak of stars.

Elissa glanced down at the dead templar, and feigned surprise. "Bespoke heavy plate?" They walked away from the carnage, laughing. She brought out that side in him- he wanted to please her. She could be charismatic, sweet, bitter, cruel, all in the span of minutes. It was dizzying to keep up.

"Oh, no, that's for in public. In private, we have these yellow and purple tunics, right? Much more comfortable, and you don't break the beds when you jump on them during a pillow fight."

"Here I've shared a bed with you, and not one pillow fight. I'm disappointed." She winked. "I'd like to see your form."

"I bet you would." He grinned back; his neck felt hot under his armor. "You don't really want to know about my being a templar, do you? It's really quite boring."

"Then make up something exciting."

"See, that's what I like about you. Being a Templar isn't just chasing men in skirts and hiding behind priests, you know."

"Tis also hunting and killing," interjected Morrigan coldly. "One might forget, with all that _flirting_."

"Have you ever been hunted by the Chantry, Morrigan?"

"Several times. I am not alone in this; our conversation with Bethany revealed as much. A witch-hunter came to Lothering, once, and sought me out. To no end; he found nothing. I was long used to avoiding them. A mage has the advantage of distance; their dampening devices only work in a certain radius, and their abilities at short range. They rely on the element of surprise as well as strength."

"She's right. Unfortunately. This is why the Order keeps its methods secret."

"How have you learned these, say, 'anti-templar' countermeasures?" Elissa took a sip from the water flask.

"When I was a child, the templars would come again, and Mother would look at me and smile and say that the fun was to begin once more."

"Fun?" repeated Alistair. "How could it have been fun?"

"T'was a game. A little girl to scream and run and lure the templars deeper into the Wilds and to their doom." There was a glint of something in her eye, more than the usual challenge and insult.

"Did you kill them?"

"Not I. I believe, however, Flemeth relished the chance. They chose their deaths the moment they decided to hunt us."

Lissa said, "But you were a child."

"Indeed. Mother did not want me to know fear. I would have been angry, had I been denied the chance to play."

"You're lucky it was just was a game for you. It wasn't, for those men your mother killed. Most of them probably had no choice." Alistair clutched the medallion in his gauntlet tightly. _Mages give deaths with no honor._

"You pity them? If the Wilds have taught me anything, 'tis this: first you must survive. But please, regale us with the sad story of how you failed your religious instruction," she jeered.

"I never-" he whipped around, frustrated. "It was not the life I would have chosen."

Elissa pacified: "Do you want to talk about it?"

"When I was a boy, I dreamed of being a member of the king's elite guard. I suppose I fancied being a hero. But there was just one small problem: I'm a bastard."

Morrigan scoffed. "I could have told you that."

Alistair sighed. "Yes, yes, get it out of your system. I mean in the literal, fatherless sense. My mother was a serving girl at Redcliffe Castle. She died giving birth to me."

Elissa sucked in breath between her teeth. "I'm sorry, Alistair. I didn't know." Even Morrigan- well, she looked like what passed for compassionate. Her black eyebrows knitted together.

"Well, I don't go around announcing it, as a rule. Arl Eamon raised me from birth, with the help of a legion of servants, of course."

"This Eamon, he was with you in the Fade," noted Morrigan. "I see now why you were so reluctant to be parted."

Alistair shrugged. "Was he? I cannot remember the dream- Anyway, when I was still quite young, the arl married an Orlesian woman. Her father had been the occupying governor of Redcliffe at the end of the war. Not a position many would relish. Eamon needed a wife, and Isolde knew the day-to-day operations of the castle. Maybe she loved him; I don't know."

"Many of the best matches have been made like that. King Maric and Queen Rowan, for example. Or my parents," explained Elissa. They walked at a slow, deliberate pace through the many tents and fires of the refugee camp. Women wept; babies fussed. Children cried for bread and home. It was a disheartening scene. "Over time, respect might turn into fondness or love. Or at least, that's the theory behind an arranged marriage. Most of the time it ends up like Arl Howe and his wife- they couldn't stand to be in the same room." She made a face. "They deserved each other. What happened with Eamon's new bride?"

"There was a rumor, old and well established, that Eamon was my father. He was good to me, and he didn't have to be. It was a blow; she did not conceive right away. So off I was packed to the nearest monastery at age ten. Just as well. The arlessa made sure the castle wasn't a home to me by that point. She despised me. I respect the man and I don't blame him any more for sending me off to the Chantry once I was old enough."

"Once you were of age, no one gave you the opportunity to leave?" asked Elissa.

"No. The Grand Cleric was quite firm about that. And I spent half my life in the Chantry. I knew I couldn't... the guard only accepts warriors of the highest standing. Or sometimes, the son of a noble who would honor his family's name. Fatherless young bastards aren't really the type. But I never wanted to be a Templar. It was just what was expected of me. I didn't have the... reverence. The aptitude, yes, but not the attitude. Duncan rescued me. I wanted to go, but he still had to conscript me. I thought they might arrest us both!"

"And if you had not been recruited? What then?" Morrigan questioned.

"I would have turned into a drooling lunatic, slaughtered the Grand Cleric and run through the streets of Denerim in my small clothes, I guess." He chuckled ruefully.

"Your self-awareness does you credit."

"Thought you might like that."

"If the mages do not want to be bound to your Chantry, and the Templars do not want to be bound to your Chantry, why do you not rise up and be rid of it?"

"Maker, Morrigan! Not so loud," he warned. "That's dangerous talk even behind closed doors, let alone out in public. It's not a simple thing. Many Templars like their lot in life. And I assume, some mages must appreciate the safety of the Circle."

"I sincerely doubt this."

"The one thing they have in common is that they mostly hate each other."

"On that, we can agree."

They passed into the village. Elissa breezed by a helmeted templar who told them there was no more room for refugees. Lothering was a small, brown place, shaped like an oval, with the Drakon River running through it. There were a score of houses and a handful of businesses, some boarded up, as though that would keep out the coming Blight. The largest feature was a respectably-sized chantry, which took up one side of the river. It was a handsome, old stonework, with many auxiliary buildings, including a cloister and a school.

The courtyard was crowded with arguing folk. A Chasind man wailed about the end of the world, pacing back and forth and screaming, spittle flying from his mouth. A merchant, with a full cart teeming with wares, was getting a browbeating from an angry Sister. "I can't believe it. A Blight descending, and they're still running the Chanter's Board," Alistair pointed out.

"What's a Chanter's Board?"

"Oh, you know. Widows and orphans need help sometimes." He adopted a high-pitched voice, mimicking a woman: "'Black my boots, please.' 'Thatch my roof, please.' 'Escort my daughter through the woods to Grandmother's house, please.' You do an odd job or kill a bandit and the chanter pays you for it."

"Hahaha, ah, I see. Do they let outsiders participate?"

"I can't imagine they wouldn't. Some of the tasks are suited strictly for a mercenary."

"Are we to waste time on every squabble in the village?" sighed Morrigan.

Alistair teased, "You sound leery to be on Chantry ground, Morrigan. Will you burst into flames, I wonder?"

"I am not a demon."

"Riiiiiight."

"We can wait to find Ser Donall, until you have gathered your courage," smirked Elissa. "Come, let us see if there is a merchant at the inn."

The witch scowled. "How kind you are."

"That's what I'm known for- kindness!" she answered cheerfully, whistling a few notes of a song Alistair recognized- it was the Orlesian cotillion played at the Debut Ball in Denerim. One of his earliest memories was of Teagan practicing the dance, preparing to escort a young noblewoman to her coming out.

They approached the solid stone bridge which spanned the Drakon. The river was narrow and sluggish here, though it was difficult to judge how deep it might be. The banks were muddy, the thick kind that might steal a boot right off your foot. The recent rains and foot traffic had turned Lothering's center into a sodden mess.

Morrigan gingerly picked her way through the muck, watching her slippers. _I bet she wishes she could be a bird right now. _Barkspawn was enjoying himself, barking enthusiastically, and he jumped, splashing her with mud. "Control your mangy beast!"

The Warden girl stopped dead. Alistair nearly plowed her over. "Maker's-" He stopped himself, with one look to her face. She was pale, and trembling. "What's the matter?"

"Oren?"

* * *

><p>Some dialogue © BiowareEA and quoted, no ownership implied. Reviews are deeply appreciated.


	7. Blind

"So she said to him, 'Désolé! I do not know where your pantaloons are, but let me look for them.' What she could not tell him, naturally, was that _she_ took them to later give his dogs the scent." The orange haired woman sipped from her mulled cider, leaning forward to stage whisper to her rapt audience. She explained with a saucy wink, "She needn't have bothered. She smelled like him from head to toe."

The patrons of the Angry Mule burst into raucous laughter. Even the qunari, in the dim corner, made a sound which passed for amused. Elissa Cousland was at the center of it all, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, deep in her cups. Tonight, she wore a peasant's dress, with a woolen red skirt and tiny slippers, her hair tied up in her yellow silk scarf. She could pass for a tavern wench, as long as she kept her mouth shut. If she spoke, her highborn accent gave the game away. Behind her, the Orlesian storyteller continued the tale of the spy Zoë.

A lone Warden stepped out of the small roadside inn, into the cold night air. The wind was picking up, hinting at the possibility of a storm blowing off the lake. The signage creaking in the breeze bore a crude painting of a donkey kicking a man in the backside.

He shivered, pulling his cloak around himself tighter, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. It was unbearably stuffy and hot inside the tavern; it smelled of unwashed bodies and vomit and beer and stew. Outside was not much better: earth and shit, and though he didn't want to buy into the stereotype, wet dog.

A flash of momentary brightness as the door opened behind him: "Where do you think you are going?" Morrigan queried from the shadow. Funny... the more time she spent with them, the less she spoke like she'd learned the king's tongue out of an old book. Of course, right now she was also slightly intoxicated on sweet Chantry wine. Alistair had participated until it made him maudlin.

She wore a thick, quilted jacket made out of brown velveteen, cut in the style of a Tevinter magister. The piece had a high collar and a fanning tail, handsome, imposing, but hardly subtle. Just like the woman herself. This was a present from their esteemed leader, who was overly fond of giving gifts.

"Just needed some air," he answered, swallowing down the acrid taste of saliva, which pooled under his tongue.

"Not running away?" She joined him, lighting their faces with a small conjured flame at her fingertips. It glowed, blue and eerie. "Do not think I have not noticed how you have changed since Lothering."

"Careful, Morrigan. Someone just might think you caaaaare about me, and ruin your scary witch reputation."

"I perceive that you have stopped fraternizing with the Warden. What have you done?" She laid her hand on his shoulder. He immediately shrugged her off, stepping to the left, but not before smelling the booziness of her breath.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" He sniffled, and wiped his running nose with the back of his hand.

"Are you not standing out in the cold, pining for her? T'would be more efficient to get her intoxicated and be done. Take her to bed." She grimaced. "Ah. Disgusting. T'will be sick for speaking so."

"It's not like that. I'm not pi- Andraste's flame, Morrigan, I am not _pining._ And neither is Lissa. She has her new friends to keep her entertained."

"You are jealous!"

"Jealous? Me?" he said half-heartedly. "Of the psychic Sister and the qunari? Pah."

_Maker, that Leliana. They sure do grow 'em crazy in Orlais._ She was a strange one. Shrewd, wily, annoyingly disingenuous, but candidly fanatical about her worship of the Maker. He could see how she had made her fellow Sisters uncomfortable; he felt the same. She actually believed that the Maker had a direct hand in the everyday fates of men.

Leliana was not beautiful, but she made up for it with interesting features and melodic voice. Lissa had shared a suspicion with him that she was actually a bard- an assassin of the Grand Game- yet she still graciously allowed the woman's presence, unafraid. If Leliana was a fox, Lady Cousland was a wolf.

With Leliana's assistance, they had rescued the qunari, who called himself Sten, of something called a 'Beresaad'. The hulking ox-man had been caged, left by the Chantry as a prize for the darkspawn to claim. Alistair knew very little of the Qun ways and had never met a giant, but if memory served, they were supposed to have horns. What's more, this one was brown, not grey, which did not match the pictures in Mother Dreya's illustrated manuscript of Thedas. (He'd gotten into quite a bit of trouble as a twelve year old for touching it without permission.) Might he have a Rivaini parent? Was such a thing even possible? Alistair shuddered to think of it.

Sten had committed cold-blooded murder in Lothering. No way around it- he slaughtered the very ones who rendered him aid. He would not tell them why, but he was frank and remorseful about the deed. Sure, it meant that Alistair had to sleep with one eye open, but the terror Sten's presence caused on the battlefield was almost worth it. Almost.

"What, then? You have been strange, since we took this road. I saw you pluck the enchanted rose from the Chantry garden. Surely, you have no use of its magical properties. Have you another lover in Redcliffe?"

He blustered for an answer. "I'm not even going to- How did you- What makes you think I have a magic flower?"

"A thing which springs from a dead bush, and does not wilt..."

"You've been spying on me," he accused.

"Do not be a fool," she retorted. "I know that is difficult for you."

"Why do you always go on about how stupid I am? I'm not stupid, am I?"

"If you need to ask the question..."

"Because it hurts my manly feelings, you know. All _one_ of them." He grinned wryly.

"Then I'll be sure to write you an apology once all of this is over. But, indulge me first, Alistair. What has you acting the fool tonight?"

He groaned. Maker, she was not giving this up. "Didn't we just... Do you remember the boy in Lothering?"

"I cannot recall. There were many of the horrid creatures scurrying about in the camps."

"You're so motherly, it really warms my heart. But, with a mother like yours... But I digress. I'm speaking of the child on the bridge."

"I still cannot recall."

Alistair scoffed to himself. The wind whipped around their feet. He walked a couple of steps into the soft, dewy grass, feeling the chill seep into his boots. "How much did you drink? Dead woman, fetched her amulet, sent the boy to the Chantry? No? Pay better attention!"

"I was occupied elsewhere," Morrigan huffed. "The Warden sent me off to trade for supplies..."

* * *

><p>"<em>Maker, Lis, what the hell happened?"<em>

"_Loghain sent his regards," she replied dryly, wincing as a sister daubed the long cut on her jaw. "We sent some back." Her green eyes were glassy from pain and strong Antivan brandy._

_He took the last chair at the table, beside the little boy munching bread. "Who's we?"_

"_Alistair, meet Leliana. Leliana, Alistair."_

_The girl barely glanced at him. "Charmed, I'm sure," she said in a mushy Orlesian accent. "This will need stitches."_

"_Leliana is from the cloister- Ow, fuck, don't, that hurts!"_

"_Do not talk. I must go and fetch a needle and thread."_

"_Fantastic." Blood dripped down her neck, traveling along the brown streaks where it dried. Her skin was the color of chalk. Alistair chewed his cheek._

"_I will be back," Leliana assured as she left them._

"_We did a fight," informed the child solemnly._

"_Yes, we did, Peter."_

"_You said a swear."_

_Elissa clicked her tongue. "When you're grown up, you can swear, too." The child seemed pleased with this._

"_How many were there?" he asked, after a moment of silence. What else was there to say?_

"_Just three... I think. Well armored. But I didn't walk in expecting a bar brawl. My own mistake. If it hadn't been for the Sister, I might have gotten the worst of it."_

"_I should have been there," he muttered. With the child to protect, she must have been hindered. In close quarters, she should have had the advantage._

"_They had big swords. You have a big sword! I'm going to be a Grey Warden when I grow up."_

"_And a fierce one you'll be. Here, take this copper and see if you can't find yourself some milk. Be forceful but polite, like a proper Warden."_

"_Yes, ma'am!" Clutching the coin, he rushed away and down the stairs to the innkeeper._

_Alistair moved into the chair vacated by the sister, and picked up the damp cloth. Gingerly, she lifted her chin to allow him access. He hissed in sympathy. "Does it hurt bad?" The cut was jagged and bruising; likely she had been struck with the pommel of a sword._

"_I'm sure it looks worse than it is. Tell me, am I horribly disfigured?" she chucked. Her pupils were large, responding to the effects of the alcohol. He could smell the perfume of her hair, the fragrant sweat beading on her forehead. He wiped it away._

"_No, you're still beautiful," Alistair responded, without thinking._

_Her eyes flickered to him, surprised. "You think I'm beautiful?"_

_His mouth quirked. Defeated, but pleasurably so: "You caught me. Of course you are, and you know it. You're ravishing, resourceful, and all those other things you'd probably hurt me for not saying."_

_She smiled. "I would never hurt you."_

_His stomach flipped. "Nor I, you." The background chatter of the Dane's Refuge seemed to grow louder, threatening to drown out the sound of his heart beating in his ears. "I still wish I had been here with you. I think I would look rather dashing with a scar, don't you think?"_

_She tapped him on the nose. "And ruin your pretty face? No, no, I can afford a few scars. I want people to be scared of me."_

"_Well, consider me scared." And he was scared. Because he thought, then, that this would be the perfect time to kiss her. Only, she was bleeding and raw and he would probably hurt her. He settled for pushing her hair behind her ears._

"_Alistair..."_

* * *

><p>"Alistair! If you cannot explain yourself to me, I will be forced to send her out." She pushed open the tavern door.<p>

Alistair snapped out of his reverie. "No, come on, don't do that!" he begged, scrambling to follow her back inside. His feet were leaden with the cold.

"Morrigan, Alistair whatever is the matter?" asked Leliana, intercepting them. "Can you not save your aggression for the darkspawn? Why must you always fight?"

"She's hateful."

"He's an idiot!" the witch declared, throwing up her hands. "He cannot be reasoned with."

"Oh, that is so sweet," the Sister cooed. "You two have feelings for each other."

"That's not―"

"Ridiculous-"

"-even close-"

"-to even say such a thing-"

"-Maker's breath, no!"

"-you naive girl."

"Hm, you may try to deny it. But I see what is going on here," Leliana said with a sage air, folding her hands.

"I have never heard anything so wrong in my life," Alistair retorted. He scanned the room. The place had thinned out. Some had returned to their rooms, others had passed out in their mugs of ale. The innkeeper, a grey-faced old woman, was methodically cleaning glasses with a white cloth. "Where's Elissa gone off to?"

"She accepted a prayer card from Brother Thessalus and retired upstairs. I assume she wanted time alone to commune with the Maker."

_That doesn't sound like her._ "Thank you, Leliana. If you will excuse me..."

Thunder rumbled above them, signaling the start of the rain. From the narrow staircase, Alistair could hear the silvery drops strike the roof. Plink! Plink! Whoosh! A few drops burst into a downpour. He shivered, grateful to be indoors on a night like this, and not in a tent. Yesterday, they had crossed into Arl Eamon's territory. By tomorrow afternoon, they could be in Redcliffe village.

The reports coming out of Redcliffe were disheartening. Ser Donall had told him of Eamon's terrible sickness- the man, who had always had good health, was suddenly on his deathbed, and no healer had been able to aid him. That Arlessa Isolde had sent out the knights to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes suggested all was lost. The Urn was a legend- an interesting legend, but a legend nonetheless. Alistair hoped they would make it to the castle in time for him to say his goodbye, if nothing else. Much troubled him tonight.

Finding it unlocked, he opened the door without knocking. His friend was sitting at a small table, writing by candlelight in her journal. Her quill shivered violently as her hand moved across the page. The curl of her script was wild, legible only to her. She'd been drinking, and quite a lot. "Hello, Alistair," she invited, without looking up. Recently, she had adopted the habit of writing down travelers' rumors about darkspawn activity.

"Leliana said you were praying. I thought I'd better check and see if you'd hit your head." He flopped down bodily on the bed. It was old and overly soft; he sank like a stone into the middle.

She giggled. "Not re-recently." Her tongue betrayed how much she had imbibed. Elissa cleared her throat. "The brother had some ink. I traded him some cooking herbs for it."

"And a prayer card?"

"Hm? Yes. A funeral card for King Cailan." She held out a rectangular piece of paper, heavy stock, a mass-printed souvenir of death. "In Denerim, he said, street vendors are selling them for two silvers a piece. And, knowing Denerim merchants, probably tufts of blond hair, and coins with his face on them."

Alistair grimaced. "That's disgusting."

She sighed. "I was there for Maric's funeral. Everyone wants a relic from a dead royal. The guard intervened only when they started hawking teeth. And he died at sea!"

He studied the card. On one side was a verse of the Chant, reserved for these sort of occasions. On the other side was a very fine rendering of his brother's face in profile. It was so strange to see him like this- a picture on a page. Alistair hadn't known him any better than that. Would never know him better than that. Stupid, but when he was a child, he had imagined that eventually he and Cailan would be a family together. He had never believed they looked much like each other, but the man in the drawing could have been himself. A little fuller in the face, yes, and longer hair, but they were nearly twins.

"It's a good likeness, don't you think?" Elissa asked softly, turning in her chair to face him.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Lissa... did you know him?"

"Not well. He didn't recognize me when we met at Ostagar, until I told him who I was. Do you want me to tell you about him?"

"Uh, sure."

"Well, when I was young, we spent some time in Denerim. Fergus and Cailan got on like a house on fire. He was friendly, athletic and charming... Favored his father's looks. As I've said, my father fought under Maric in the war. The Couslands have been loyal to the Theirins since Calenhad defeated Elethea, if you believe my old tutor. In fact, my mother was a Theirin. My grandfather Hubert was Moira's first cousin."

He sat up, surprised. "Really? So are you in line for the throne?"

"No." She paused to consider this. "At least, I don't think so. I suppose an argument could be made for Fergus... Huh, I never thought of it, but technically I _am_ a candidate. Certainly more legitimate than Loghain."

"Great," Alistair laughed. "We'll put you up for queen. I'm sure they'd love that."

She shook her head. "I'll defect. They'd make me marry Eamon's brother, oh, what's his name? I should know this."

"Teagan, Bann of Rainesfere," he supplied.

"Yes, that's just it. Our children would have the reddest hair in Ferelden. Then the Chantry would get involved..." She reached out and stroked his head. It sent shivers of frisson all over his body, settling in his cock. "Don't look so glum. I'm sure Eamon has recovered by now. He's just the right sort to be King of Ferelden- popular and tactless. And if not, well, we'll just have to find Fergus, or put up with Anora."

He could feel his loins stirring from her touch, and was grateful that the traitorous side of him was pressed into the bed. "I take it you don't like Anora much."

"Not for any good reason. She's got nine years on me. Even helped me dress my hair for my debut. The problem is- was- Fergus. Anora Mac Tir was _b_eautiful in her girlhood." She smacked her lips on the 'b'. "Think... men baying in the streets, women breaking their mirrors in a jealous rage... So naturally, Fergus and Cailan both fell in love with her, and they fell out over it. My father, in his wisdom, decided it was a good time to send Fergus to the university in Seleny."

Alistair understood. "You blamed Anora for your brother leaving."

"I blame her for leading him on. Why have a lord, when you can have a prince? He had to go all the way to Antiva to be rid of her. Within a year, he married Oriana, daughter of a merchant. They were a good match..."

_Oren..._

"I'm sorry for your loss, Lis."

She stood abruptly. "I'm sorry for yours. Cailan was a fool, but he was still your brother."

There was a roaring white noise in his ears. "What?"

"Come now," she slurred, frowning when she stumbled. "You thought I wouldn't work it out? Slap a beard on you and you're the ghost of King Maric."

He swallowed compulsively, trying to rid himself of the lump in his throat. _Buggering shit._ "I was trying to work out the best way to tell you. Honest. I was going to do it tomorrow."

"I think you liked not telling me." She wobbled. He pushed off the bed to catch her before she fell over. "Going on about me being an heir, when you're the royal bastard!"

He slipped his arm around her to steady her. Despite her angry tone, she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. "I didn't want to keep it secret from you. But I liked being treated... normal. Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me... even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn't want you to know, as long as possible. I'm sorry, Lis." He spoke against the crown of her fiery curls.

"Don't '_I'm sorry, Lis_' me. I gave you so many chances..."

"How long have you known?" She twisted in his arms, coming face to face with him, too close. He could feel the soft press of her breasts against his chest; heat flared at the base of his spine.

"Since... Your face seemed familiar, but I hadn't seen Cailan in... five years? Since his wedding. I don't know. At first I reasoned you didn't know. But you def- you defended Cailan. I knew it. Cousin!" she whispered triumphantly, her lips grazing his throat.

"Don't... don't call me that..." he murmured, focusing hard on her hot breath on his skin.

"Why not? We share a... what was it... great-great grandfather? King Vanedrin, who got fucked in the ass by Orlais. Have you seen the painting of the Rebel Queen at the palace?" She described it to him in a reverent whisper. Every word set his nerves alight. "A Valkyrie driving a chariot in battle, red hair streaming around her, holding her standard aloft."

His hand wound its way into her hair. He tugged from the roots, pulling her back to meet his hard gaze. His brow furrowed in concentration. "Stop it. You're drunk, and I don't know if I can-" Her pink mouth was open, panting, and he saw the wetness there and craved it like a starving man. "-stop myself," he breathed.

Her eyes were fever-bright and showed no pain. It had to hurt, his hold in her hair, but the heaving of her bosom suggested that she was enjoying it. "What if I called you _Prince Alistair_?" she asked, voice gone husky. "It could be very... thrilling..."

His cock leaped in his trousers. He wanted to hate himself for liking it, but the way she said it... _Hell._ He had never done anything like this but Maker help him, he wanted it. He found her mouth with his, clumsy, need drowning out his fears. The rain pounded down above them, loud, demanding, but she kissed him back, tasting of wine and salt. Her slick tongue slipped against his lips and he granted her entrance, aching.

Couldn't think. Couldn't stop. It was too easy to lift her up, press her against the wall, balance her there with her skirt riding up around his stomach. She was light as a feather and he was strong, the strongest he'd been in his whole life. She groaned, resonating with his loneliness, his desire for her. The first time he'd seen her, he'd hated her, but he'd wanted her. Burning kisses, belly aching, cock throbbing-

"Stop," he exhaled against her mouth, telling himself more than her. "Lissa, Maker-" Alistair kissed a line of worship down her throat, tenderly nipping where her neck met shoulder, where an arrow once met flesh-

"Yes, there, please, more-"

She shifted, arched against him, carefully, so smoothly that he barely knew what she was doing. Then, he felt the wetness between her legs and his mind quieted. She guided him but it was instinct, it was easy, his body knew what to do even if his brain wanted to panic. He found heat, and sweetness there; his sword sank to the hilt. He bucked, breath hitching, overwhelmed. At a distance he heard her voice, coaxing, commanding, driving him, but he could not last like this! He thrust blindly once, twice, three times into the tight warmth and spent, arms trembling. Without warning, his knees failed him, and they collapsed in a pile on the floor.

* * *

><p>Some dialogue © BiowareEA and quoted, no ownership implied. Reviews are deeply appreciated.


	8. Secrets

A flash and a sound: lightning, right outside the window, cracking like a bullwhip across a beast's back. The young man started at the noise, causing his female accomplice some distress. "Hey! You just kneed me in the stomach."

"Sorry, sorry, so sorry, oh, here, let me-" he shifted the errant limb away from her tender areas. She made a comical face as she helped him de-tangle himself, and he was hit with a sort of panic. "Just- lightning- sorry."

"Barkspawn's afraid of storms, too," she teased.

Alistair groaned. "No! Not like that... The Sisters at the monastery used to say we would get struck by lightning if we... and something about the end of civilization, too. Ugh. You must think I'm an idiot." He covered his face with his hand.

"Oh, no, I have strict rules about that. I never take an idiot to bed," purred Elissa. She kissed his shoulder. He felt his ears flush, but he was secretly pleased.

"Good to, uh, know. But we didn't make it to the bed."

"No we did not." She peeked at his softening cock, hanging out the front of his trousers. "I didn't get a chance to see you, either."

The blush spread across his face and down his throat. "Maker's breath, Elissa, don't look at me like that." Hastily, he tucked himself back away, feeling sticky and strangely gritty, from drying mess.

She cocked her head. "And why not?"

"You make me feel like a ham in a shop window," he groused.

She smiled. Her skirt was haphazardly arranged. Her thighs were bare and coated in pearly seed. She looked debauched, mussed; her lips were a deep red from kissing. He had the strange desire to bite them. _A wicked mouth_, he thought, not for the first time. "I will avert my gaze," she promised, closing her eyes and tilting back her head. There, on her lily-white throat, he saw the purple evidence of his teeth. "Better?"

He swallowed. "Much."

"So... growing up in the Chantry... oh, how do I say it- You were a virgin?"

Alistair's stomach sank. "Was I that bad?"

"It's cute!" She opened her eyes again. He was drawn to the green, like a hypnotic pendant at a traveling show. She saw his distress. "I didn't mean it like that. I mean- a gentleman usually finds a lady a cloth to clean up with!"

"Oh. Oh!" _Fuck_. He awkwardly pushed himself up, to retrieve a washing cloth. His left foot had fallen to pins and needles. "Ow, ow..." he muttered with each hobbled step.

When he turned back around, Elissa was standing, too. She winked, and pulled her dress off over her head. She wasn't wearing any underthings; for a moment, it was hard to breathe. He had pictured her body on many a cold night, but the reality... the reality was better. She wasn't as scrawny as she had been on the eve of her Joining. A steady supply of fresh meat and hard exercise had stuck to her ribs, making her less a wilting flower, and more a warrior. Her stomach was flat and the color of milk. Her small breasts bore upturned buds, pink like tree blossoms. Her pale skin burned but never darkened; she had no tan marks to speak of. Her hips were narrow and glass-sharp, with red curls between them. And, truth be told, she had a magnificent ass. Alistair gawked.

"Now who's staring?" she asked, unabashed in her nudity. He came to her, scarcely knowing himself, and began to wipe her thighs clean. She hummed under his hands, skin prickling with gooseflesh from the cold water.

_You're beautiful,_ he thought. What he said, however, was, "How come you don't freckle?"

She laughed. "When I was a precocious girl, always sneaking out to watch the guards training, or scraping moss out of the wall with my very own little rapier, I would burn in the sun. Then, Mother and Nan would catch me and drag me into the tub, and scrub me with sugar and lemon and special herbs, to keep my skin nice. They said I would regret it as a woman at court, if my bosom was too spotted to show off." His fingers wandered north, stroking the soft folds between her legs, slick with her excitement. He couldn't say what possessed him, but it felt good to explore. She did not push him away; indeed, she leaned against him, huffing soft breaths as he found a curious nub of flesh. "When... when I was in Orlais, I bought a cream which was allegedly enchanted. They peddled it to the pox-faced women, who wore veils, to restore... their skin." She began to tremble violently. "I used it every day. I cannot- cannot- cannot-" Her body jerked. "I cannot talk while you're doing that!"

Tenderly, he laid her down on the bed. He pulled his shirt off, amber eyes darkening, and hovered over her, stroking this interesting place between her legs. "You were in Orlais?" he asked, amused by her little spasms. He kissed her damp thighs and she cried out, back arching.

"Long story," she said, when her breath returned. Finding himself aroused by her satisfaction, he took her again, with her legs over his shoulders. In this position, he found more success, as he could last longer. Alistair quickly brought them both to shouts.

This time, he pulled her close, burying his face in her neck. They were sweaty, bare, and thoroughly spent. Leisurely, she ran her nails across his broad chest. She looked like the cat who stole the cream. "Have you..." he began, treading into uncertain territory, "You've done this before, haven't you?"

"I've had my share of lovers," she agreed.

"Ah."

"In Antiva, it is expected that a lady of means will be one of experience, as well. Ferelden is funny. We want our wives to be tigers, but our brides to be virgins."

"And these things are mutually exclusive?"

"In my understanding, yes. A virgin girl is a quaking thing, afraid of her own shadow. A man fantasizes that he can teach her how to please him, but he will grow impatient, and bored."

He frowned. "Were you? Bored with me? Because it didn't sound like it."

"Don't get your feelings hurt. You were a Templar; I understand they strap chastity belts on you when you turn thirteen."

"Not true." He laughed a little. "I hadn't had the pleasure because... I wanted it to be special."

"Special how?"

"Not in the Pearl, for one. Not with some stranger. It's the little things. Candles, fancy sheets... I read a lot of naughty books. You'd be surprised what sort of literature Chantry Sisters pass around."

"Would I?" She got up, and brusquely cleaned up her pits and privates. _Whore's bath_, they called it. "Mother had a friend who would read them aloud for us at her salons."

"So it's a woman thing, got it." Alistair dragged her back into bed. "Who was your first? Was it in Orlais?"

She grinned salaciously. "There was this pretty girl..."

"Maker's breath!" he whispered.

"I could tell you a far more interesting tale, of Geraldine, with the long blonde hair, and the most delicate doe mask? A courtesan of Empress Celene. She kept my bed warm and full of secrets." Seeing Alistair's overly eager expression, she put his visions to rest. "But no, I am not much for tales. The reality is a touch more complicated. My first was my betrothed."

"I didn't know you were-"

Elissa screwed up her face. "Nobles. What can I say? Most of us have our marriages sorted out at birth. We're an odd lot. So. Story: I had just entered into womanhood, and I fancied myself madly in love with him, like any girl that age. He took me to my debut ball... We were quite lovely together, and he is still the best dancer I will ever know. But. The fantasy did not quite live up to the reality... and I demanded my engagement be called off." She sighed. "My poor father. Both his children were too stupid to... There was Fergus, chasing after the king's future bride, and myself, deflowered before my time." She spoke plainly, with little emotion. "He didn't love me in the way I expected. How could he have? He was a good seven years older than me, and I was still a girl."

"Lissa." He petted her hair. "You don't have to go on."

"Hm. The short of it... it was nearly a terrible scandal. Since I refused to marry Nathaniel Howe at the tender age of sixteen..."

Alistair blinked. "Nathaniel Howe, as in Howe, the arl who killed your family?"

She shifted away from him, shuddering. "No, but his oldest son. Nathaniel has heard nothing of his father's murderous ways, Maker willing, wherever he is these days. He _loves_ his father. Lady Audra, his mother, ah... Flemeth is far more motherly."

"Right."

"Father was establishing a new trade route across the Waking Sea, one where a naval presence would dissuade the pirates from making off with Highever cargo. He was always a better merchant than he was a warlord. I went with him, until the scandal blew over, and spent two years in Val Royeaux. Geraldine was my Leliana back then."

His eyes widened. "But you're not- Not with Leliana? Are you?"

"Am I fucking her?" She rolled her eyes. "The only person who has been in my bed lately has been you. Or haven't you noticed?"

"Yup, and I'm an idiot."

She hushed him. "No, you're not." She laid a finger across his lips. He could feel his mustache prickling against the callouses. "Geraldine was a bard. It was- is- dangerous for a Ferelden to live extended in their capital. People are always looking for your weaknesses. Some Orlesians would be happy to return to war. Even the servants could be an enemy, an opportunity for a diplomatic incident. And Cailan was such a young king. So my father paid a reputable spymaster for her services."

"Did she really 'warm' your bed?"

"Wouldn't you like to know!"

The rain continued to drench the shore, silver lightning crackling on Lake Calenhad. The room grew colder. Alistair pulled the blanket over them, and dragged Lis into his arms; the bed sagged tremendously. It felt deliciously good, to lie naked with her pressed against him. Sinful. And besides, the end of civilization was already upon them. What could be worse than a Blight and a civil war? "You know, you are really talented."

"At what? Sex?"

"Don't put words in my mouth," he scolded.

"I suppose you have nothing to compare to."

"I was going to say _politics_. But I take it back."

"Oh, don't! I'm sorry, please, compliment me!" she giggled.

"You wouldn't be the worst queen in the world. You might actually be quite good at it."

"We are not on an epic quest to put a Cousland on the throne. My ancestors didn't fight to defend generations of Theirins to see one of us claim it."

"Not all the kings and queens have been Theirins. Being a descendant of Calenhad is good enough."

"I believe that qualifies _you_, Alistair."

He cringed. "I would never, could never be king. I like being a Grey Warden. I like being a nobody. You can't possibly think that blood is qualification enough for me to rule."

"It will be enough for many."

"Which is why I don't go around announcing it."

"You're a hypocrite," she accused, pulling out of his arms and sitting upright. "My blood is good enough, but yours is not? Is it because you're a bastard? Because bastards become kings, all over Thedas, Alistair."

"It's not the same. You were raised to rule."

"So was Anora."

"Fine! Then we leave her on the throne. Oh, wait, she's her father's puppet."

"I don't know why we're even arguing this."

"Because we have to kill Loghain!" he shouted. "I will not let my brother's murderer take his throne! And it's... good to have a plan."

"Spoken like the future king."

"Fuck! Elissa. It's not something I want. My father didn't want me-" He caught himself. Mortified, he pulled himself out of her bed and went for his clothes. _Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid idiot._

"Did Maric know about you?" she asked, carefully, with a look of concern. He hated her pity, then. It filled him with ugliness.

"He did. Eamon kept him apprised of my life. I can only assume he approved the plan to make me a slave to the Chantry."

"What?"

"One of the Chantry's dirty secrets - templars are lyrium addicts. Once you take your final vows, they poison you with the stuff until you can't think straight. And the Chantry controls the lyrium trade... You can make the connections." He pulled on his boots.

"Oh, Maker... Alistair, where are you going?"

"I need a drink."

"Shall I come with you?"

"No. I... need time to be alone."

* * *

><p>A shorter chapter to celebrate <em>Inquisition<em>. Reviews, as always, are deeply appreciated.


	9. Hostile

The dream came in waves of purple and gold, washing over the shores of black intoxication. Six women, bathed in silk gowns the color of the sea, stepped out of the surf and onto the white sand, bare-footed. The flesh on their bones shone in the moonlight; a bright night illuminated these wraiths of the spray, these sirens of the rock. Each was armed, some with gleaming weapons, others with tokens of power. Fright gripped him and he turned to run in the soft sand, but in this dream state he was slow and clumsy, and stumbled to his knees. "What are you?" he cried out, and from the formless dark their faces came to be.

"We are Death," said the First, with a benevolent nod of her head. He did not know her, but she knew him. He felt this at the core of himself, but knew that she was a liar and would lead him into the dark sea if he gave in to her. Yet, for a paralyzing moment, he wanted to give in, to the sad kindness of her arms. The First was a tiny woman, wearing an ivory mask which covered everything but her huge elven eyes. Her long black hair curled lazily around a staff which was taller than she was. She reached out to him with her free hand, as she approached him. When she was close enough to touch, he reached for her, and found her fingers were cold as ice. Cold as death. He shouldn't have been surprised. He pulled away.

"We are Vengeance," said the Second, a sneer set on her lips. He knew her, every inch of her mortal body, but not a single one of her thoughts or breaths or sighs did belong to him. She glowed like a pillar of fire. Her hair burned with licks of orange flame under a golden crown, but she carried a sword in her hand, and blood dripped down from the blade to coat her pale arm in crimson. This creature bore Elissa's face, but it was not she, any more then the next was really Morrigan.

"We are Patience," said the Third, in Morrigan's voice, carrying a dragon's egg in her arms. It seemed an impossible weight, but she did not tire, or flag, or weaken. Indeed she floated along the beach, and only her big toes skimmed the sand. Her gold eyes smoldered with Time, but they were not her own. They were an old woman's eyes, which did not suit her fresh face. He could see the dragon behind them. Another came before he had the chance to think on this.

"We are Choice," said the Fourth, a flaxen haired woman with the visage of his brother's wife. Anora scowled, her head bowing under the burden of a crown much too large for her head. She held a rose in her hands, a familiar blossom, one he knew rightfully belonged to him. The stolen thorns plucked at her soft fingers, and she bled. His brow furrowed and he tried to question her, but found he had no voice with which to speak. He clutched the sand in both fists, his only defense.

"We are Freedom," said the Fifth, chuckling darkly. _Freedom at what cost_, he wondered, for this spirit was drenched in the blood of others, stained even upon her pretty face. Her black hair was cropped like a boy, and her lithe frame swaggered like a commanding officer, with every firm step. The Fifth was unfamiliar, but though she carried a well-used knife in each hand, he felt no immediate danger. This butcher might be a friend.

"We are the Future," said the Last, a brown-skinned prisoner in chains, who, bizarrely, walked like an empress. No slave was she. She looked upon him with pity, like he was just a grain upon the sand, and spoke like a prophetess. Of this one he was most alarmed, more than Death, for her face seemed to swim and change before him from kind to cruel, the kind of demon who would bring a king to crawling on his belly like a worm.

"What do you want of me?" he questioned.

"Are you afraid?"

"Yes," he answered, honestly.

"As you should be," agreed the Last. "Only a fool would turn his gaze upon us."

"So you... want me to be afraid?"

"We want you to listen, young King Alistair." She shook her head, with bemused exasperation. She was a handsome creature, not a girl but most assuredly a woman, with all the grace and maturity which only age offered.

"I'm not a king!"

"You are not listening," scolded Death, in a motherly tone, from the left. "We are not interested in your opinions."

"You still have options," reassured Choice in her airy voice. "But you would be prudent to heed us."

"I..."

"Accept the gifts offered to you," advised Freedom, toying with her weapons. "Listen to your friends. The wisest leader of men surrounds himself with those who know more than he."

Patience smiled. On that face, it was freakish to him. "You have bumbled your way into a circle of the most talented and powerful beings in Thedas. Do try not to fuck it up."

"I'm sorry... powerful? Leliana? Really?" he scoffed. The sand in his fists trickled between his fingers, like an hourglass. "And I suppose you'll tell me that Sten is really talented at glassblowing or something. For a bunch of impressive ooglies, your information is a bit crap."

"Stubborn to the last," said Elissa- _Vengeance_- rather, her burning face inscrutable. "Hold onto that."

Frankly, looking directly at her was blinding. He squinted. "Are you spirits or demons? Why do you look as you do? Why not be yourselves? Horrible monsters or balls of light or whatever you Fade things look like."

"It's your dream," explained Anora- _Choice_- or whatever. Seriously. It was annoying to keep up with all these vague titles. "We draw from your threads. We are women most important in your life."

"Screwed that up, didn't you though!" Alistair laughed sourly, and pushed himself to his feet. No more of this hovering over him business. "Lis, Morrigan, okay fine, but Queen Anora? Really? Couldn't have had my mother? I would have liked to see her face, just the once. Had a wetnurse too, of whom I was most fond. Could have sold me on that. But you three..." He indicated to them carelessly. "I don't know any Orlesian mages, sorry. Maybe you were meant to haunt Leliana."

"We are who we are meant to be, past, present, and future," said the Last. The chains rattled on her bound arms.

Alistair rolled his eyes, feeling a mix of discomfort and annoyance. "Ohhhh, of course, my _future_. When I'm _King of Ferelden_. Don't know if you get post in the Fade, but we have a Blight on. S'not going to be any Ferelden soon."

Death chuckled. Of course she would. Was she beautiful under her mask, or perhaps grotesque? "Then you'd better get to it, child. A word of warning- your family is in danger. Wake up!"

The clouds crackled with green light. "What do you- Who is in danger?" he began to say, but before he heard an answer, the sand gave way beneath his feet. He fell into the abyss.

* * *

><p>The bastard prince slept poorly, on a wave of frothy ale and inevitable vomiting, and woke with a smashing headache. The sky was just the faintest traces of pink, early dawn after the storm, but the smells of the tavern were too much for his beleaguered head. Blearily, pausing frequently to dry-retch in a slop bucket, he dressed and clomped his way down the stairs.<p>

The last thing he could remember was playing wicked grace with a bunch of dwarves. The more he drank, the better he was at cards, and by the end he was winning as many hands as he lost. Earned a few silvers, and nobody got knifed or anything.

The early morning crowd was a ragged bunch. They clumped to the tables away from the windows, heads down near their plates. Alistair counted a few surface dwarves, sharing a meal with a very phlegmy Chantry Brother. There was a farmer with his family- four skinny children- getting loudly berated by his large wife. A smattering of various others who could be categorized as well armed... but none were his companions. He had the feeling he had drank with some of these, made "new friends" in the night, and felt a rush of hot nausea when he realized they were Carta enforcers.

Patrons breakfasted on sausages, and tomatoes fried in fat, sweet beer, and black bread. _Oh, Maker, I bet that tastes delicious,_ he thought with regret, too ill to partake. _The worse it looks, the better it is. That's the rule of Ferelden cooking. _Near the bar, a scrawny serving elf balanced an enormous tray of meals on one shoulder. Swaying around her, he very nearly caused an accident.

"Oops, sorry," he muttered, as he bounced off her hip.

"Watch where yer goin!" she snapped, spinning her burden to dodge him. The elf gave him a once-over with her eyes. "Mercenaries!" she exclaimed. "You should probably sober up before yer lady-captain drops yer sorry arse in the lake."

Alistair flinched. "Not so loud! Have you seen her? My... captain?"

"Your band is outside, in the stables."

"Well... thank you. Sorry, again. That was clumsy of me." _Shit, Maker, just the shittiest morning..._

Her pointed face softened at the sincerity of his apology. "Now, you do look proper miserable. Here." She plucked a glass full of red liquid from her tray and offered it to him. "Hair of the dog. Consider it the house special. Yer Alistair, ya? Missus has paid for yer brekky already."

"Oh! Um... Thanks." He warily accepted her offer. He didn't recognize the stuff, but it probably tasted like straight poison. Every tavern had their own proprietary blended cure-all. Some worked, some didn't- all were horrible to drink.

"Don't mention it." She grinned. "Drink it down, there's a lad."

Feeling brave (and put upon the spot, truth be told) he took a large gulp of the pulpy red stuff. It was something like hot coals and old fruit, and burned his sinuses as he swallowed it down. "Maker's breath!" he sputtered.

"Tastes like buttered arse, I know, but don't ye feel better?" A grizzled dwarf with a prominent facial tattoo whistled for her attention. "It's elfroot juice, Antivan hot peppers, whiskey, and- -I know! I'm coming! Keep yer shirt on- -These Carta, no manners." She rushed away, balancing her load as though it was weightless.

The funny thing was, he did feel slightly better. He could breathe, smell again, without needing to heave. The pounding behind his eyes began to fade as the healing herb worked its magic. He dutifully drank the rest of the glass, and left it on the bar-top. The old innkeeper was nowhere in sight. In the kitchen? Or perhaps still asleep. Her girl was more than competent in running the morning crowd. What was the old wisdom? The best whore listened like a spymaster... the best serving girl scolded like a mother. Or something like that.

Squaring his pack over his shoulders, he went outside. The storm of the night before had passed, rinsing the muck off road and filling the air with the sweet freshness of familiar plants and familiar mud. Home. They were so close to home now. Add the odor of fish, and they could have been in Redcliffe village. The first rays of sunlight reflected off the choppy blue waters of Lake Calenhad, swollen from the rain. Clusters of red spindleweed and cat's tail and blood lotus sprung from the pebbled shore. Something about the water's edge struck his imagination, but he couldn't begin to guess what.

On all sides, the Hinterlands, the foothills of the Frostback Mountains, rose around them. Foothills seemed a bit of a misnomer, really, since some paths were as steep as any mountain trail he'd traveled. It was much easier by horse, and like any other Redcliffe lordling of days past, he had learned to ride as soon as he could sit Dennet's gentlest (and laziest) pony.

Later, when Isolde had chased him from the castle nursery, he had roamed the forest with the other village boys. It had been safe, back then, to carry lunch for a day and harass the wild rams. Now those same trees sheltered pockets of foul darkspawn. If they were lucky, the farmers of the outlying region had taken refuge behind the gates of Redcliffe or Rainsfere. Little villages like Honnleath offered no protection against a Blight. Maker watch over them all.

Alistair found Morrigan and Sten outside of the stables, engaged in a frightening conversation about interracial love making. The witch appeared very interested in... jumping the giant's bones, for lack of a more delicate turn of phrase. Shuddering, he chose not to listen further, and found the other girls inside, conversing earnestly with a stranger.

"I don't care if Loghain's closed the border," Elissa said firmly to the courier, touching the flank of his horse, "these simply must get to Val Royeaux. I'm sure I don't need to press upon the urgency. I'm paying you double now, and extra if I hear a timely response from our Orlesian friends. Stay close to the lake, then take the pass through the mountains as far north as can be managed. I imagine you can outrun the Blight through the snow."

The courier nodded. "Milady."

"If your organization is successful, I have many generous friends who can grant you a foothold in Orlais. Your superiors would value this," commented the Chantry Sister. Sly fox girl...

"Of course," he agreed. "We will find you with the answers to your letters."

"You won't fail," said Elissa, dismissing him with a well-practiced gesture. To his eyes, she looked exhausted, like she hadn't slept at all. She was getting better at not showing it, but he read it in the lines in her hunched back, the stiffness of her neck.

He had the pounding urge to flee. _Only a fool would turn his gaze upon us,_ he thought, remembering a line from a play he once read. "Good morning," he said, before his courage totally failed him.

"Good morning, Alistair," replied Leliana, with her usual good cheer.

"Mm. Morning," echoed Elissa, looking past him. He shrank a little. "Now that everyone is up, we'd best be going," she said, to the other girl.

Leliana took him by the arm and guided him back into the morning air. She whispered, "We have word that they've locked the gates at Redcliffe. Nobody allowed in."

He frowned. "Why? That can't be right."

"We shall have to see, yes?"

"Who did you hear this from?"

"The courier, of course," she explained gently, as the witch, the dog, and the qunari fell in step behind them. Their leader lagged behind, fidgeting with the strap on her new scabbard. "He expected to meet Lady Cousland in Redcliffe. We sent out a summons back in Lothering."

"Who is she trying to contact?"

"Many people," Leliana laughed, as though this was an obvious thing. "We composed a list of Ferelden lords who would be sympathetic to our cause. The blessing of the Maker is not enough. This, even I can see. Orlesian finishing schools train their pupils to think laterally to achieve their goals."

"I see." He did not.

"As you may know, the Cousland Family managed a very extensive and valuable trade in textiles. Highever produced its own fabrics, including a lovely taffeta, but more importantly she held control of the imports into Ferelden, and a share of the foreign market. This means that many, many people owed debts to Teryn Bryce Cousland. At my suggestion, the lady has agreed to collect on these debts to bring in some gold to our cause, in the event we manage to summon an army. Spies are also quite useful," she said breezily, as they descended a hill. "However, we have come across a new... complication."

"Howe has been made the new Arl of Denerim and Teryn of Highever," announced Elissa in dull voice. Alistair felt like he had been struck. "The news came in the night."

"Maker, Lis, I'm so sorry," he blurted, instinctively trying to turn and face her. Leliana's hold became stone like a golem's grip, preventing him from doing so. He felt like screaming, but- there must be a reason for this. A warning from the sister?

"Apparently my family were 'traitors colluding with the enemy'. That is to say, Ferelden is now hostile to Orlesians again."

"A sorry state for me," quipped Leliana. "This Arl Howe is very good at the Game."

"We don't play your games in Ferelden," Alistair protested.

Leliana disagreed. "You do. But you are not honest about it. In Orlais, we wear our masks so that we can be our true selves." _Which of these true selves are you wearing, Leliana? Sister or bard?_ He wondered, thinking to Elissa's private accusations. He was uncomfortable with the idea that Leliana might be right about Ferelden.

"None of these games have any honor," scoffed Sten. "You should face your enemy directly, and end his life in combat."

"Yes, yes, we've all agreed to that," said Morrigan. "T'would be wonderful to freeze this Howe's skull, and be done with the rat. But we do not have a dreadnought to tear down his castle walls. Do you think it a sound strategy for the five of us-" the dog barked "-excuse me, the _six_ of us, to go wandering up to his army and commit suicide?"

"Harumph," grumbled Sten. "You fight like Ben-Hassrath."

"I'll assume that is a compliment," retorted Leliana. "Ignoring the lone dissenter, you should be informed that we have sent a letters to Val Royeaux. Which makes all of us traitors, now, in the Regent's eyes. I hope this does not trouble you."

"Not at all," shrugged Alistair. "But why bother with Orlais now? Could they even send money through the closed border?"

Before he got an answer, they had a nasty skirmish with a small contingent of pillaging darkspawn. Leliana, quick as summer lightning with her bow, took the most kills. Not that he was counting. Just around the bend, horror awaited them. They walked on in dour stillness for a while then, among the ruin of lives. Cottages burned, crops rotted in the fields. Even the carrion birds were reluctant to make a meal of the Blighted corpses. These people- had he known them? Had he played with their children? Perhaps their husbands? The familiar sounds of life in the woods had been replaced with a deadly hush. It made him sick.

Suddenly, Elissa broke the silence. "There is a chance that our treaties will be meaningless, with Grey Wardens branded as public enemies." The gate to Redcliffe was in eyesight now. "If this is the case... I am hoping to arrange passage for you to the Imperial Court."

"What?" He stopped dead in the road.

"As the heir to the throne in Denerim, you would be safer under Celene's protection, until the Blight can be defeated."

"WHAT!"

"Oh, that is just marvelous," drawled Morrigan.


	10. Pretty Faces

Some slow firing part of his brain refused to recognize that Elissa Cousland had just revealed his most important secret, as though she was commenting on a change in the weather. And in the same sweeping statement, she intended to banish him from his beloved homeland. His mind stuttered. _This isn't happening_, he decided, because it couldn't be. She would never... Sten called her "_callous_" under his breath, when he disagreed with her commands, but that was just his stubborn Qunari nature.

_Right?_

Alistair let out a tentative laugh. "You're joking, Elissa. You can't really believe that I would let you bundle me off to Val Royeaux while you lot take on the darkspawn. I'd miss out on all the fun." He smiled thinly; he was pleased with his answer. It was the right amount of cautious amusement, so that when she revealed this all to be a prank, he could laugh along with the punchline.

From behind, she laid a gloved hand on his shoulder. For a split second, he imagined he could feel the heat of her touch, but this was impossible, of course, with so many layers of armor between them. Just a fantasy. "And what will you do when Loghain sets a price for the head of a bastard prince, hm?" she said softly, so only he could hear. "Will you watch us be picked off, one by one, defending your pretty face? Or would you prefer we die all at once?"

The blood in his veins turned to ice. _Not a joke._ "How... How could you ever say something like that?" he asked, in a strained whisper. His jaw flexed, molars grinding. His imagination ran fertile, supplying gruesome scenes: a knife in the back here, a poisoned arrow there. The tools of the assassin, as she had once so casually described. Her dead weight collapsing on top of him...

"They're your friends. They would die for you," she said coolly. He could feel the teeth of the wolf on his neck.

"And you?" His voice broke.

"It would be my _duty_, my dear cousin." Venom on her tongue. She slapped his shoulder twice, and walked on by.

Time began again. Other voices whirled into life, reacting to his secret like players on a stage. He could hear them recite their lines, but could not respond. The sun on his skin was cold.

"Wait a moment," complained Morrigan, "you mean this fool is our future king?"

"Oh, but it is so romantic..." Leliana sighed, breathy, "A handsome Grey Warden is the secret prince. They will write such lovely songs about his story."

"Swoon later, Sister Leliana. We'll get you some paper later and you can write them yourself," suggested their leader, pushing through them to take a place in the front.

Under the boughs of the mature oaks of Redcliffe, a shadow crossed Alistair's face. The others laughed and told jokes amongst themselves, overly loud. He wished them all away, so he might have time to think. Could she be right? Was he putting them all in danger simply by being Maric's son? This, this was why he didn't want people to know. They always treated him differently. No one was the friend of a bastard prince. _I could leave,_ he thought, but the idea twisted his guts, made him ill. _I should leave and find some darkspawn and... and... _And the only end to that train of thought was his own death. He wasn't prepared.

But Orlais? Under the thumb of the empress? Was that the only solution, really? Surely he could go to Antiva, Nevarra, the Free Marches? And be a coward, leaving his country to death. The ruler of a pile of ashes. They said that the winner was the one who outlasted his enemies, but what use was a poisoned throne to an unwilling victor?

If Duncan were here, he wouldn't have to go away, would he? Would Duncan send him to the blue empress, wrapped up like a package in fancy paper? The man had deliberately kept him from the fight at Ostagar. He was honorable, but also clever: sure-footed in politics, able to weather the fragile arrangement between Ferelden and Weisshaupt. Perhaps he would agree with Elissa's assessment of the state of things.

He could not see clearly. The future was muddy waters and they were up to their necks in the current. All he ever wanted was to do his duty and be a good Warden. _Duty_. She used the word like a vicious curse. Why did she hate it so? He remembered it being something to do with her father.

He stared at her back, willing his feet to keep pace with his companions. The way she walked always distracted him- her backside swayed pleasantly, as though she wore a full skirt which swished against a marble floor, and not skin-tight leather trousers. He had never seen anything quite like it growing up; the sisters, present company included, walked with purpose, like men.

Just last night, he had slipped his hand between her thighs, felt her come to life at the stroke of his fingertips. She was pure fire at her core. He'd never wanted any other woman the way he wanted her. He'd never done those things- Fucked her sweet and bright while she crooned in his ear. The memory stirred life back into him and he quickened his pace, carrying with him confusing desires: want, and hate. To span her slender waist with his large hands in front of them all, to expose her secrets like she had done his, to claim her and kiss her until she begged him to stay.

_How does she do this to me?_ he wondered. _She twists me up inside. I hardly know myself._

* * *

><p>Months later, he developed a reoccurring nightmare about the events at Redcliffe. How could they have known? Busy with their petty squabbling over lines of succession, they had been oblivious to the dangers which awaited them in his childhood home.<p>

It began with a frightened youth called Tomas, not much older than a boy yet, perched atop the gate into the village. When Sten gave the wooden door a shove, he bounced back with equal force, his teeth rattling with magic.

"Go away!"

"Hullo, friend!" Elissa called up, when his sunburned face peeked over the battlements. "Are you the guard? Do you mind opening the gate? We've come a long way to see your arl."

"You're armed," replied Tomas warily. "You're not refugees. Are you bandits? I-I've got rocks. I'll smash your heads!"

To her credit, Lissa did not laugh in the face of his blustering threat. She crossed her arms and bowed politely, as though addressing a superior. "We are Grey Wardens, here on the business of the Blight."

His face shifted to hope. "Grey Wardens? Then you've heard? You've come to help!" Tomas ducked out of view, and Alistair correctly supposed he was climbing down to unlock the barricade.

"Come to help with what?" asked Elissa as they passed through the gate. The large old windmill, standing at the top of the hill, came into view. Even from here he could hear the familiar creak; the sound was as comforting as the view of the castle afar. Alistair knew, every native knew, if Redcliffe stood, so did Ferelden.

"You don't know? I thought- Does no one know? We sent for help-" he chattered, slamming the gates closed after Morrigan. The enchanted sigil sealed them tight with a soft orange flash. He felt the magic like any Templar, a flickering under his skin.

Alistair frowned. "What's wrong? Something must be _wrong_ in the village if you're using the sigils. Is there a sickness? A plague? Only the arl has the authority to activate them."

Morrigan met his eye, a smile playing about her lips, and he saw that she understood what he was saying, without having to spell it out. "You're using them to repel more refugees," she noted.

"For their own good!" replied the boy, clearly distressed. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "We're not keeping the Blight out. We're keeping the _monsters_ in!"

"Monsters?" repeated Leliana, alarmed.

"I need to stay on watch. Warden, you should go talk to Bann Teagan. He's in the chantry, on the other side of the village."

Though she clearly had a hundred questions, Elissa nodded swiftly. "Bann Teagan, then. Thank you, friend."

On the other side of the windmill, a cluster of men in massive white plate, carrying the shields of Redcliffe, sat beneath a tree. A few were dozing, under the watchful eyes of their brothers on guard. It reminded Alistair of the fitful, stolen moments of sleep in the days after Ostagar, fearful of the things that crept in the swamp. He guessed that these men had been awake all night. The only one he recognized was the man in old Chevalier's armor, Ser Perth, who was engrossed in a book of the Chant.

At the crest of the hill, they could look down upon the whole village. It still stood, much as he remembered it, though it had been so long now. In the Hinterlands, where humans had lived since before written history, tradition was old and magic older. In hidden places, shrines to Avaar gods co-existed with monuments to the Elvish god Fen'Harel, known to the Dalish as the Dread Wolf. The Alamarri had grown to love the Wolf, and took His children to raise them as their hounds.

Here, the people did not thatch their cottage roofs with dead chaff. Instead, they cut the living sod from the green earth and let the grass grow tall above their round huts, building tiny hills. It was an art form Alistair had witnessed only once as a child, during the wedding of a very young couple. The bride was swollen with child, pink-faced and pretty with her blonde hair done up in plaits. The villagers came together and erected her a new home, cut the sod with knives which were curved like bear claws, and laid it across the supporting beams. The new family had to tend it carefully in the coming weeks, to keep it alive. If they were successful, and the grasses stayed green, then the union was a blessed one, and the Mother would come from the Chantry to consecrate their threshold.

The enormous lake, which glittered like a sea, was the natural end to the village: on three sides rock, on one side water. Fishing was the village's primary occupation, and the air always smelled of the morning's catch. But the wind brought them other smells- rot, and wet smoke, and blood.

"That gate was blood magic," Morrigan commented quietly, giving Alistair a side glance. "I assumed, with your Chantry's stance on the practice, this would be illegal."

Sten gave a disgusted grunt. Elissa was curious, and looked behind them, but they were far enough down the hill that the gate was no longer in sight. "Really? Was it the boy? He didn't look like a maleficar. He looked like he was going to piss his trousers!"

"No," Alistair corrected. "Not like that. The sigils hold some truly ancient wards in place. It's old Avaar magic, I think. That was just a little one compared to some in the foundation of Redcliffe Castle. When they all were still working, from what I know of the legends, they made the place unassailable. They must have begun to flicker out in the days of King Calenhad."

"But they're blood magic?" Elissa pressed. "Keep in mind, I don't have the training in magical theory you two have. I mean, I can only tell an apostate from a Circle mage by the clothes."

"Yes. Ah. Arl Eamon has some interesting books on sigils and runes in his library if you ever want to-"

"He is dancing around the question," Morrigan interrupted. "Most amusing. He went on and on about Bethany Hawke being a blood mage, when he himself was raised under similar protections."

Alistair flinched. "It's not the same. I... I never once saw them used. My knowledge on them is theoretical, but- Only a Guerrin can use them. It's keyed into the blood. Eamon never told me, outright, because I was not his heir nor family, but I must have read every arcane tome he had. Twice. Teagan would... Teagan would smuggle them out for me." He shook his head. "Teagan must have activated the one at the gate."

"Something is seriously wrong here," Lissa sighed. The village was too quiet. Frightened children huddled in their mothers' skirts, in darkened doorways. Near the square, a stack of charred corpses still smoldered. "We're being watched. There's a plague, or something worse. Don't drink the water until we know," she advised.

In the Chantry courtyard, some men practiced with their bows. But these were not soldiers, just ordinary fishermen, and their aim was poor. "Where are the rest of the knights?" asked Leliana, dodging a stray arrow which wobbled into her path. "Are there no templars to protect this sacred ground?"

"All questions for Bann Teagan," Morrigan answered her, grimacing as they entered the chantry.

This one was more ornate than the one in Lothering, with magnificent blue and red stained glass on the wall of the ambulatory, behind the altar. It was also darker, with fewer candles to light the whispering droves of refugees. They huddled with their belongings all along the nave, praying and crying to the Maker in the same breaths. It felt distinctly like sacrilege, to interrupt their fervor. But the sight of a familiar face drove him onward. His boots clinked against the stone floor.

"Uncle Teagan!" He rushing to greet the man.

"Why, Alistair, is that you?" responded the other, with surprise and joy, turning aside from his aide. "What in the Maker's name are you doing here?"

Bann Teagan Guerrin was approaching middle age, but had always appeared younger than he was. In looks, he favored his sister, the late Queen Rowan, with a sharp nose and cheekbones. His auburn hair was long enough to plait on one side, and these days he sported a beard, but the eyes were ever the same. They embraced for a long moment, and Alistair felt evermore at home again.

"I came to speak with Eamon, but then we heard he's fallen ill," Alistair explained. "The southern gate was warded, uncle. What's going on?"

"We? Ah yes, you've joined the Grey Wardens, haven't you?" Teagan sighed. "Rarely is there a time when being a Templar would have been less dangerous. But Ferelden will have need of your talents." A dark look crossed his face. "No matter what the Regent believes."

"We were hoping to have Redcliffe's aid in the coming fight, but it seems you may need our help instead," Elissa added, catching up.

"Who?" Teagan squinted in concentration. "I know you. You're the youngest..." Abruptly, he dropped into a deep bow. "Teyrna Cousland, I had no idea you were even alive. If the Landsmeet knew- your family's friends would never have allowed Howe to seize Highever. My self, and my brother, go without saying."

Lissa clicked her tongue and returned a brief curtsy, which looked odd in her Warden armor. "I deeply appreciate the sentiment, Lord Teagan. But no need for us to stand on formality. After all, didn't we dance together at Cailan's wedding? You may not remember; I was the scrawny one with two left feet."

_If Lissa's the teyrna, doesn't that make her higher ranking than Arl Eamon?_ Alistair mused, uncomfortable with the intense look Teagan was giving her. _Okay, yeah, now he's kissing her hand. That's not okay._

"Never, my lady. It was I who knocked us into the punch table."

"Was it?" chuckled Elissa, taking back her hand. "I like your version of events better. But I confess I'm unsure... Have you married, Teagan?"

_Yesterday she couldn't remember his name. Now she's so sweet on him it's like he's her long-lost lover,_ Alistair fumed. _Wait. They haven't... have they? No._

"I... no. No, I've never had the pleasure. If I did, I'd be lucky to find a woman as lovely as yourself," he stammered, emboldened by the careless charm of her flirting.

"Flatterer," she smiled. "Truth be told, I never expected to find you here. Last I knew, you were in Denerim. I wrote to you there."

"Really?" he blushed. "I mean, I was in Denerim, until after Cailan's funeral. I usually act as my brother's agent in the Landsmeet. But Isolde wrote to me, telling me how ill he had become. A coma. At first it was just a terrible thirst, but... no magic or medicine seemed to help him. She sent all the knights away, on a quest."

"The Urn of Sacred Ashes," supplied Alistair. "I met Ser Bryant in Lothering."

"Yes, quite. I only got here myself yesterday." Teagan pursed his lips. "But the castle had been sealed. No one has been allowed inside for over a week. I could not..." he looked away.

"Your blood could not undo them," Morrigan suggested. "Because Eamon is the elder brother."

"How did you-" Teagan looked alarmed. "A friend of yours, Alistair?"

"Allegedly," he replied. "She worked it out for herself."

Teagan's shoulder's slumped. Resigned, he continued, "I tried, and I failed. No one has had communication with the castle since the wards went up. Perhaps everyone had contracted the sickness, and sought to quarantine themselves. Perhaps they are all dead. But last night, I saw for myself what has frightened the people of the village. The dead rise, and come from the castle gates. They slaughter the women and the children. Ser Perth and his men are the only knights here; for two nights they have held off the advance, but they are exhausted, and the dead do not tire. This morning, I warded the village gates myself. At least, this foul curse shall not extend beyond Redcliffe."

"A necromancer, or a demon," pronounced Morrigan thoughtfully. "Probably both. It would take immense power to summon an army of the undead, and control it. Only the sun protects these people now; they will not last another night."

"What do you suggest?" asked Lissa, pulling them away from Teagan.

"I suggest we make good use of the daylight remaining and leave," the witch replied, simply, tapping her staff on the floor. "We cannot hope to win this fight."

"No!" Alistair sputtered. "We can't leave them!"

"Your arl is dead. There are no soldiers here for Redcliffe to give," reasoned Sten. "Or are you now in favor of suicide missions?"

"This is my home. I could never abandon them. If you go, I'm staying." He turned to their leader. "Lissa, you understand. You could have never left your parents..."

She scowled, running her fingers through her red curls. "I would have fought to the death. Do we have to make that choice here?"

_I can't leave them, not now._ He grabbed her wrist, forced her to look him in the eye. _Not after everything we've been through._ "Please, Lis?"

She tilted her head. He could feel the ugly tension between them, growing all day. Maybe he had misjudged her. But- Elissa bowed her head, smiling strangely. "Remember what I said about your pretty face?"

* * *

><p>Some dialogue © BiowareEA and quoted, no ownership implied. Reviews are deeply appreciated.


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